


The Adventure of the Velvet Room

by NMR3



Category: Persona Series, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1899, Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes Style, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Crossover, Gen, Historical References, Mystery, No Romance, No Slash, Original Character(s), Post-Reichenbach, Victorian John Watson, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-10-06 23:30:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 67,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20515289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NMR3/pseuds/NMR3
Summary: Thieves, murderers, and Moriarty---where Queen Victoria's finest have failed, Sherlock succeeds. But against a criminal that leaves no physical clues, Sherlock must delve deep into the psyche. Welcome, one and all, to the Velvet Room.





	1. Prologue: The Fool

IT IS with the greatest reluctance that I consign these papers to the travel-worn and battered tin dispatch-box with my name, John H. Watson, M. D., Late Indian Army, painted upon the lid, and then said box to the vaults of Cox and Co., at Charing Cross.

I have, in earlier narratives, made references to multiple cases which have never been published, which are also contained in that very same box. The reasons for these stories to never see a printing press are many: some are sealed away because of their involving personages of significant rank of distinction upon whose honor they would inevitably impugn. Some are sealed away because their solution was so simple as to be narratively unsatisfying; I have, after all, some pretensions to literary credentials, and therefore shall not attempt to wring a story of decent length out of events which would span a mere three pages. Some final stories are then those which have never been brought to a satisfying solution, and which Holmes has asked me not to bring to light; even one such as him still has his reputation to consider.

No, the narrative which is to follow - which has, as per usual, been reconstructed based on my extensive notes during the year they span, as well as some minor exaggerations of facts which Holmes so disdains but which are essential to the quality of the prose and the story itself - has been suppressed because in it, events occur of such a singular and bizarre nature that even I, having been present from the very beginning, cannot bring myself to believe they occurred.

It was the night of January 1st, 1899. Ms. Hudson had outdone herself in preparing a most excellent feast; the roast was, more than any year, delicious. The stroke of midnight had passed, and I had long past retired to my bedroom.

I make no habit of remembering my dreams; more often than I would like to admit I am plagued by nightmares of that chaotic scene which I witnessed, for a short time, at the Battle of Maiwand, where I was wounded by that Jezail bullet - a wound that, when the weather is particularly bad, plagues me still. This time, however, my dreams were not a replaying of that most horrible chaos, where men screamed, bullets tore all around, and the air was thick with the stench of cordite and blood.

Instead, my dreams were those of a thick fog - so thick as to impede sight of the surroundings after more than a meter, at most. In my dream, a soft light diffused the mist, though which time of day it was I cannot rightly say. I was not wholly awake, yet not fully dreaming.

Lost in this fog, my attention moved indelibly to the vehicle riding through it, in fact the only object which could be seen at all. It was a hansom cab, of the type which are often seen barreling through London; no horse was pulling it, yet its momentum was undeniable. It is now, years later, that I hear of motorized cars, which move under their own power. However, the telltale roar of such a motor was immense in its absence.

Later, when I mentioned this to Holmes, he offered that perhaps the carriage was still and it was its surroundings that were moving. Discombobulated as I was by the experience, I did not reject this little joke of his out of hand, as I otherwise would have.

My consciousness entered this hansom, in any case, drawn there by some magnetic force. I was, in this dream, no more than a consciousness - less than a soul, more than a mind. 

Inside the carriage sat a man of an extraordinarily bizarre appearance. It was, somehow, difficult to place him as being of any particular race, except that he was extremely pale - almost an albino, in fact. He was dressed like a wealthy gentleman; his suit, though not in a style I recognized, was wholly black and of a very fine cut. His hands were clad in fine, silver gloves, each of his long fingers intertwined as he sat back into his chair.

The most extraordinary thing, however, was his face. He was almost completely bald, except for a shock of white hair at the back of his head. In all the time I would come to know him, I had never seen him without a wide grin, which did nothing to make him seem more human. These two features, combined with his extremely long nose, made me assume at first that he was wearing a mask, one reminiscent of those wildly excessive Venetian festivals of which one hears only rumours.

Yet as he looked straight at me, I saw at once that he was not masked at all; these features, exaggerated though they seemed, were his own. Would that they were the oddest things about him!

"Welcome, Doctor Watson," he said, chuckling in what I come to know as that odd way of his. He unfurled his long, graceful fingers and swept his hand across the table which was placed in the middle of the hansom, as if to gesture to the entirety of the cab. "You have found yourself on the edge between mind and matter, I see. My name is Igor, and this peculiar vehicle is called the Velvet Room."

Igor regarded me with those masterful eyes of his, still wearing that grotesque grin. "It is the first night of the year, Doctor. An old year has passed, and a new year has begun. Will you allow me to give you a belated gift?" From a valise at his feet, he drew a folder such as a clerk might use, but dyed deep blue and decorated with fine silver filigree. If there was anything else in the valise, I did not know. He laid it open on the table with another flourish of his thin hands, displaying a contract printed upon paper so thin it was nearly transparent. 

I was about to protest; though I never considered myself superstitious, I was not such a creature of logic that I would sign a deal with anyone who appeared in dreams and spoke in riddles. It had all the elements of a deal with the devil, bizarre as the thought was.

But as the remonstrations were about to fall from my lips, he held up a hand, and some instinct held me back from refusing.

Igor gestured once more at the contract, and my attention was drawn to its wording. It merely said that during the next year - that is to say, 1899 - I would be honor-bound to do my very best to solve a particular case, the details of which would become apparent during that very same time period.

At its bottom, however, was printed elegant lettering, which spelled out my own name to the left, underneath which was left enough space to sign the document. But that was not what caused me consternation.

In its right corner was another name - that of Sherlock Holmes. A paradoxical feeling rose within me at once. Relief, that whatever this was I should not face it alone; anger, that my greatest friend should be involved in some sort of diabolical scheme; worry, trust, and more were all warring within me, so that I could neither pick up the pen nor refuse out of hand.

Igor regarded me with amusement and no small amount of curiosity.

"Perhaps you are not quite ready yet to sign, doctor Watson. It is no problem, luckily," he said. With another gesture of his hand, the folder within which the contract lay slid closed, hiding it from my eyes.

Yet even then he did not look away from me. "However, doctor Watson, I will eventually require an answer from you," Igor said in that drawling voice of his, and then added, "Whether that answer is in the positive or negative sense is up to you, of course. Allow me to offer you a compromise, then.

In a scant few moments, you shall awaken in your bed at the usual time, well-rested. The compromise is as follows: should you, the next time you see Sherlock Holmes, discuss with him this very contract, then that shall be taken as your assent. Should you not mention it at all, then you shall have refused, and therefore you will have forgotten all about it the very next instant."

This, at least, was agreeable to me, though I had not the slightest inclination to ever mention the matter again.

Though I vocalized nothing, Igor nodded. "It is agreed, then," he said, and knocked on the trapdoor at the top. I realized, suddenly, that I had not seen a driver for the hansom as of yet. Looking through the trapdoor I saw a quick flash of pale, blonde hair, a blue uniform, and a face which seemed achingly familiar, but I could make no more sense of the scene before all went white before my eyes and I finally, blessedly woke up.

It was as Igor had said; I was, indeed, feeling well rested, and I remembered every single detail of the dream from which I had just awoken, though I did not feel any urge to do so whatsoever. My morning ablutions were perhaps slightly more hurried than normal, as I attempted to put the queer man out of my mind entirely, as well as the odd hansom which seemed to be in motion without anything to move it forward and with no real destination.

I had just come down for breakfast - a full English, served by Ms. Hudson in her usual manner, although - perhaps for the sake of the festivities - she had replaced the usual kippers with kedgeree. I wished her a Happy New Year and thanked for her service; I had already tucked into the hearty meal when Holmes came down the stairs in a state which it was extremely rare to see him in, that being generally bemused.

"Happy New Year, Watson," he said, and seated himself at his usual seat at the table. But, interrupting himself in the motion of filling his plate, he turned to me with a queer look upon his face and remarked, in a light and pleasant tone: "Do you know, I just had the oddest dream. Does the Velvet Room mean anything to you, Watson?"

It was the quiet clink of my cutlery falling from my hands in sheer astonishment, the befuddled look I cast at Holmes, my sharp intake of breath, that was the signal with which the Adventure of the Velvet Room officially began.

"You've seen it too?" I exclaimed. I had been sure that it had been nothing more than an odd dream, perhaps caused by the stress of the impending sale of my practice or by eating too much of Ms. Hudson's cooking that night.

Astonished as I was by the fact that somehow, Holmes and I seen the same dream - though it was questionable, at that point, whether it could be called a dream at all - it was a while before I suitably calmed down, recovered the composure of the gentleman society felt me to be, and sat down to my breakfast once more.

"But how is this possible, Holmes?" I asked, the kedgeree laying sadly forgotten on my plate, despite Ms. Hudson's culinary prowess. "I admit, dreams are not something my medical education covered. But still, to think that we would see the same dream! It boggles the mind."

"Not quite, Watson," said Holmes. "Among the papers I have read, there are those that suggest dreams are influenced by what we see during the day. Yet for that to make sense, there should be some inciting incident. Something that imprints itself on both of our minds indelibly. And yet we have not taken a hansom for the better part of the week. Furthermore, I cannot recall anything about ever hearing of this Velvet Room. Judging by your reaction at breakfast, neither have you."

Holmes sat back in his chair and adopted a thinking pose, resting his chin on his hands. "And then there is Igor," he said. "He seems to be a man of some wealth. He is ambidextrous - naturally so, I would venture; he lacks the stiffness of those who have trained themselves to be such. He wore a suit of a fine cut but no topcoat was to be found anywhere in the hansom, even though the inclement weather outside should merit it. And yet he was perfectly dry. Moreover, the weather last night was exceptionally clear for this time of year. If we should have been taken somewhere, then that would be quite far indeed, and without disturbing our rooms in the slightest!"

He threw himself back further into his chair and sighed. "I cannot make sense of this Igor," he confessed. "How old is he? By his hair I would say no less than 60 years of age, but his gloves handily hide the skin of his hands. What is his profession? His valise suggests him to be a clerk, but dresses like a wealthy gentleman of leisure. From where does he originate? He speaks without any accent I have ever heard. His name is Slavic, but phrenologically speaking he does not seem it in the slightest. I have never before met a more baffling man!"

He stood up, picked up his Stradivarius, and began to play. A soft, wailing serenade rang out through the apartment, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere.

I, too, attempted to make sense of the happenings. As was my habit I made notes of what occurred so far, though they lacked any sort of coherence; I cannot say that, in attempting to make sense of them a year later, I find the notes from those confused first days altogether too useful.

A sudden burst of inspiration tore through my thoughts, and I walked to the shelf on the side where Holmes kept his reference books. I pulled one out - the volume which was marked with a V - and began to look through it, scanning through its alphabetical lists and not sure whether or not I hoped to find some information about the Room.

"Capital idea, Watson!" said Holmes, and abandoning his violin, he moved next to me to pick up another volume. I glanced at it; he was leafing through the entries with an I, presumably to find some mention of this Igor fellow.

Yet neither of us had any success. If this Velvet Room was indeed something which existed beyond the world of dreams and which, furthermore, was mingling in our affairs, then it seemed this was the first either of us had ever heard of it.

I glanced sideways at Holmes, who was at the moment caught in an odd state - completely puzzled, yet delighted over this fresh new mystery. At the very least, it seemed an end had come to the drought of cases that was oddly common around these times. I prefer to think this was because the holidays inspired warm feelings in even the most piteous wretch, although I have never put this theory to Holmes: he would no doubt make some disparaging remark about it, and about my faith in our species.

In any case, our immediate venues of research exhausted, we retired once more to our sitting chairs by the fire. The weather outside, by this point, had degenerated to the point where snowflakes piling up against the glass obscured our vision of the street below. Not that there was much to see; the snow had effectively brought most of London's cabs to a halt, and it was too cold yet for anyone without some important goal to go for a walk.

"Well, Watson," Holmes eventually said to me as we warmed ourselves with a glass of good brandy and settled ourselves to wait for nightfall, "I confess that it has been a long time indeed that I have so looked forward to sleep!"

Some hours later, night had once more come to 221B Baker Street. I had, not without misgivings, gone to bed; I had almost wanted to stay up all night and thereby evade the Velvet Room and its queer inhabitant, but Holmes eventually managed to dissuade me. It was a mere childish impulse, in any case, and yet as I awoke once more to find myself in the wide cab rolling its way through endless fog under its own power, I wished for a moment that I had done so anyway.

"Welcome back to the Velvet Room," Igor offered, his ever-present grin still disturbingly wide. On the table lay that folder which he had presented me with the night before; with a flick of his hand, it opened and once more displayed that contract, this time with my signature penned neatly beneath the dotted line. I noticed, too, that Holmes' signature had been added.

I felt beside me, in some undefinable manner, Holmes' calming presence, though the hansom would not be wide enough to allow both of us to sit side by side normally, and I could not, in any case, see him; the mind-sight of this strange place focused only on Igor.

"It is rare to see more than a single guest, you know," Igor said. "But then, it is rare to see a guest at all. I suppose that somehow, your destinies are inextricably linked..." He peered at Holmes intently, then shook his head as if responding to some question Holmes had asked, but that only he could hear.

"I am merely the attendant of the Velvet Room, Mr. Holmes. That is all I am, and nothing more. I have been asked by a higher power to invite you here and to offer some elucidation."

A higher power? Was this odd man perhaps - bizarre though the thought was - an angel? I am, and was never, a zealous believer; the scenes which I had seen at Maiwand had caused me such consternation that I wondered what the purposes of the Almighty were to allow them to occur at all.

Igor chuckled. "In one sense of the word, I am, doctor. I am a messenger, after all. But perhaps it is easier to think of me in a different capacity. You often get visitors, yes? I, too, have a problem which requires your aid. I might even call it a case, as I have mentioned before."

He peered at Holmes once more. If Igor was to be one of many who had come to consult with Holmes for some case or another, then he was most certainly the oddest.

"Yes, I suppose I have taken enough of your time, mister Holmes. Very well. I shall introduce the details of the case I wish you to investigate over the coming year. Allow me to put this in terms you are familiar with, gentlemen." Igor twined his fingers together. "Suppose that the mind was a physical location. It contains memories, knowledge, feelings..."

This was indeed a concept I had encountered before. Holmes had been the one to suggest the comparison, even - he had, upon being pressed about his general lack of knowledge, once referred to most having minds like cluttered attics, while his was exactingly organized to hasten the retrieval of all necessary information. Facts which he considered non-essential, which to my consternation counted among their number the fact that the Earth rotated around the sun and not the other way around, he discarded, believing they would merely encumber him.

"Let us call such a mind-place a Locus. If there exist two places, naturally, there must be streets to connect them, to extend the metaphor. From streets come blocks, from which come blocks, from which come towns and which then evolve into cities, once enough people are brought together," Igor said, then gestured around him: "London is one such place, as it more than qualifies to have such a city of Loci. We call these cities Polis, for convenience. But as of late there has been someone travelling through the London Polis with ill intentions."

This part of the explanation, I met with suspicion and incredulity. It was not my natural tendency nor my ingrained habit to question petitioners at our doorstep, but from Holmes, too, I felt a quite bemused sort of reaction.

But Holmes, for all his deductions and lectures which claimed both to be founded on pure logic and not to involve any emotion whatsoever, also had a real love for dramatics. He had often withheld the important facts of a case from me until such time as to have the maximum impact, as well as the greatest audience to have for it. It was at times a humanizing trait, but just as frequently it was a supremely annoying one. It was this trait, I believe, which led him to indulge Igor in speaking in so mystifying a manner.

"This mystery is what I should wish you to solve, gentlemen: find this interloper and, over the following year, avert his plans to cause catastrophe." Igor shook his head. "That is all I am able to tell you, however. I cannot interfere in the affairs of men more than I already have."

I felt some reaction from Holmes - his usual excitement at having a fascinating case laid before him. Perhaps he had no interest in this interloper, whosoever he might be, but his interest in Igor had, by this point, been definitively aroused. I could imagine him, as if sitting in his chair in our rooms, firing off question after question at a witness, the reasoning behind which I could only appreciate after the fact.

While at the time, I could only perceive the answers Igor gave, I have attempted to reconstruct the conversation to some degree from speaking with Holmes himself.

"When did this interloper first intrude upon the Polis?" Holmes asked.

"We first noticed his presence some time ago - some months ago, by your reckoning. However, information is not quick to travel. Perhaps a door has been open for a while, yet escaped our attention." Igor responded.

"How did he get access to these Loci? Is he supported by another like yourself?"

"That is something you must discover, mister Holmes. The answer to the second question, however, is no. Not one like myself, nor do I myself have contact with the interloper."

"You cannot tell us where this interloper has been?"

Igor peered at Holmes. "Distance and locations are of little import in this place, mister Holmes. It matters more that you feel yourself to be traveling."

I was discombobulated by this, yet Holmes barreled through: "Yet criminals, as I have often said, are creatures of habit - more so, even, than their fellow man. It has been crucial to my finding proof of crime more than once. You will recall, Watson, the case of the Abernatty family, where the only reason we figured out the crime was by the curious fact a watch had been left unwound."

(This particular aside was a later addition of Holmes' - he could not, of course, ask a question of me while in the Velvet Room, where we were not capable of talking as such.)

Then he addressed Igor again and resumed his rapid-fire questioning. "In short, you cannot tell if the interloper has visited any Locus more than once?"

"I cannot, mister Holmes."

"Then is there some way to identify this man, that we might spot him during the day?" I pressed.

"He does not differ from any other man in daylight, doctor Watson. I can, however, tell you that if you were to find him in the Polis there should be no difficulty in recognizing him for what he is."

Igor's grin grew just a little more dim - the only sign of discomfort I have known him to show. "It is a terrible thing, what has occurred. I should wish for you not to suffer in that manner, gentlemen."

Holmes, in response, came finally to that point which I had been wondering all this time: "And how are we meant to intrude upon the Polis? We need some sort of recognition, surely, that we are not seen to be interlopers, just as our adversary! We must visit Loci for ourselves; certainly we cannot rely merely upon this information you have supplied to find them."

"Of course, mister Holmes. It is not my intention that you too should be a disturbing force on those many minds around you. To that end, I will fulfill my end of the contract."

A flick of his wrist caused a deck of cards to appear in his hands, like he had performed a magic trick of the kind seen in the lesser sort of music halls. With slow, deliberate motions, he shuffled the deck of cards, and then laid one carefully at my end of the table, then another nearby Holmes.

Igor's cards, I saw, were of markedly high quality, but in most ways quite similar to the tarot cards favored by gypsies and fortune tellers alike. 

It was, come to think of it, not the first time Holmes and I had dealt with fortune tellers, psychics, mediums, or other charlatans who claimed to have occultic powers. Holmes had taken a particular pleasure in displaying how they wrought their tricks - one memorable example had deceived a bereaved mother into believing that he could speak to her son in heaven by means of hiring a remarkable ventriloquist and installing an ingenious system of pipes underneath the table.

At his wordless prompting, the cards he had laid down before us were turned over.

The card I had received depicted a woman, who was holding back a lion without difficulty. That there was symbolism in this depiction was obvious, but try though I might I could not, at the time, interpret it. Above her head floated a sideways number 8, the symbol I dimly recalled as representing infinity. In fine lettering, it announced itself to be called "Strength".

Holmes, meanwhile, had received a card depicting a man hanging upside down from his ankle, a punishment I had never before heard of. As Holmes later explained to me, however, it was an Italian punishment for traitors - the torture of traitors being a subject on which he had once written an extensive monograph, in the idea that it might help in identifying politically-motivated murders. More importantly, the card itself suggested that the man depicted willingly underwent this torment, in order to somehow gain wisdom from the heavens.

"Merely concentrate on this card while you are awake, and you shall find yourselves in the Polis," Igor explained. "However, you must take care, for anyone nearby who is aware of the card may also find themselves transported."

He clapped his hands. "The stroke of midnight is now long past, gentlemen. My message has been given, and I shall now return you once more to your beds. I bid you good luck. We shall meet again when the time is right."

Igor knocked at the door of the hansom, and once more I saw a flash of something familiar about the driver - whose existence I had somehow forgotten completely. Holmes, too, had not expected we would be made to exit suddenly, and I felt his presence stir in its seat.

But a white light spread from the table, taking us with it in its flood outwards...

I awoke in my bed, sputtering at the abruptness of our departure from that strange hansom, and hastened from my bedroom. I made for Holmes' door, intent on asking which questions he had asked and seeing if he had somehow derived more meaning from them than I had managed to, and damn the early hour.

However, as I crossed our living room, I saw lying neatly on the table those two cards Igor had mentioned. As I bent over them to inspect them, Holmes left his room. We looked at each other, still in bed clothes, neither us having attended our morning ablutions, my mustache disheveled. Almost shamefaced, I handed him that odd card which Igor had given him; moments later, we both burst out laughing.


	2. The Strength & The Hanged Man, part 1

After having somewhat recovered from our impromptu laughing fit, I returned to my room to properly prepare myself for the day, as did Holmes.

We did not discuss the matter over breakfast, as part of some unspoken agreement. Unlike some of our other clients, which included the most august members of our society, Igor had not explicitly sworn us to silence. He had merely told us to be careful with who we told.

But then Igor had not needed to swear us never to tell anyone, because without seeing that queer cab for themselves, who would believe us? Even we, who had met him for ourselves, were still not convinced of all that Igor had said.

Yet now, as we sat in our chairs by the merrily-burning fire, we could not wholly convince ourselves that it had been merely all illusions. 

In the words of Holmes: "It cannot be merely a dream. I am convinced it is wholly impossible to both share the exact same dream twice in as many nights, to the point of recalling exactly what was said in it and the gestures which were made. Neither can I recall a drug with which such a dream may be induced. It is impossible, and yet the alternative is that we were taken from our beds in the middle of the night, deposited into that Velvet Room, made to undergo that interview, and then brought back to our beds, without disturbing anyone sleeping in the house or the traps I set near my door. Frankly, Watson, both options are equally impossible. I quite doubt that Mrs. Hudson received a visit from Igor, in either mind or body, as we would certainly have observed some sign from her."

"What are you saying, then, Holmes?" I asked.

"I admit that I do not know what the cause of this phenomenon is, Watson. You have heard me proclaim that I need data, data, data. I cannot build without bricks. But as of yet, my bricks are lacking," he said, then more for my benefit than his own, he continued, "We are for now able only to see where this takes us, I suppose."

"You believe Igor's talk of Loci and the Polis, then?" I pressed.

"I should very much like not to, but for the moment I cannot find proof of him having uttered a falsehood."

At this point, I had, on some subconscious level, begun to accept the absurd premise that all minds were connected and it was possible to walk, as if with a physical body, from one mind to the next, yet I was desperate for any way to refute it. But if even Holmes was unable to, what chance might I have?

"What do you suggest we do then, Holmes? Surely we cannot have this man invade our dreams night after night!"

"Indeed not, Watson. Whatever his purposes for doing so may prove to be, Igor has shown the ability to invite us to his abode without any reservations whatsoever. I cannot think of a way to escape from his clutches, except to do as you suggested yesterday and evade sleep as long as we can."

He stood up, moved to the Persian slipper in which he kept his tobacco, and stuffed some into his pipe. Then, having relit it and taking a long drag, he continued talking.

"And yet that is no solution. I am as aware as you, Watson, that sleep deprivation is a terrible thing. I could once, as a younger man, go days without sleep and food, subsiding merely on my mental energy, but having grown older I fear I am less able to do so. Certainly I cannot expect you to keep up with me, either, considering you still have your regular practice to take care of!"

He took another puff of his pipe.

"Therefore, as I said, I believe our only recourse for the moment is to believe what Igor has said, and to test his claims for ourselves."

So saying, he took from the pocket of his smoking jacket the card Igor had given him, and which had laid upon our table the very next morning, as if delivered by some invisible courier.

"A Tarot card," he said, while turning it about in his hands. "I have not made a study of them so far, believing them merely a way for fortune-tellers to part people from their money, but this is something I must evidently correct. There is some reason, I suspect, why Igor gave us these cards and not another."

"You may be right, Holmes," I said. "But where will you learn more about this? It is not as if books on gypsy lore can be found in most libraries."

"Yes, Watson, I do think you are correct. However, I can still make some inquiries of those who have made a study of occult practices - not fortune-tellers," he added, seeing my disbelieving look, "but professors who study where these beliefs come from.

"In any case," he continued, "these cards are for the moment as much a mystery to me as their master. The paper they are made from is thick, quite smooth, and yet rather strong. It takes some effort from my part before I can feel it bending, you see."

This was, perhaps, most indicative of the oddity of these cards. I had seen Holmes bend steel with his bare hands a decade or so ago, and time had not dulled his strength or reflexes overly much.

As if murmuring to himself, Holmes said, "The Hanged Man..."

Suddenly, we both were seized by an extremely odd sensation. It was as if, for a moment, the floor buckled between us, and we were thrown about like we were riding a ship in a terrible storm. And yet, physically, nothing else moved that I could see.

I saw, before my eyes, ripples appear in my sight, as if a pond had been disturbed, and before I could see what was happening to Holmes, everything faded into a white light.

With a sensation of impact I landed upon a different floor entirely, and it took a moment before I was fully myself again, rattled as I had been. The fall had left me slightly sore but, though it felt like I had fallen a great distance, my impromptu landing had done no more than that.

I looked about me, as my sight had by this point come back to me.

Somehow I had been transported to an attic, full of ancient books which bore the marks of good care upon their backs, stuffed though they were in piles along the floor or neatly arranged in the bookshelves which figured as walls of this strange place. The roof was low and without blemish or hole. How, then, I had managed to fall through it, was a mystery to me.

"Watson?" I heard Holmes cry; scrambling to my feet, I answered with a call of "Holmes!", and we soon found each other.

Holmes looked about him with some trepidation, as did I. He still held the card in his hands, clutching at it as if he was afraid it would escape into some other strange location. I had taken my own card from my pocket, and looked at it entirely differently than I had before.

"Where are we?" I asked, but Holmes shushed me.

"I do not know, Watson," Holmes said, and fell silent, thinking. I knew better to disturb him at times like these.

Just at that moment, however, my knee brushed against one of the books on top of its own neat pile, which then flew open of its own accord and started flipping through its pages as if caught in some invisible wind.

Suddenly I was a young boy, racing through the rooms of what seemed to be a country house. I was not in control of myself, merely a presence watching the scene play out. In my hands, I clutched at something which I had found - a book, though I was not able to chance a look at its contents.

I noticed that around me, the colors were more vivid than I had ever seen before, the sounds more vibrant, the world itself somehow brighter and its layout more structured and obvious. My legs were longer and my shoulders thinner than they had been at the age this youth must be.

"Mycroft! Look what I found!" I, as the boy, cried as we ascended the stairs, and in a flash I realized this was not my own memory. I was suddenly jolted back to myself, in body and spirit, and found myself back in that attic.

Thrown off balance by the memory - for that was what it was - and my earlier stumble, I collided with another pile and fell into it, knocking each of its books down and inducing them all to replay their memories.

For a moment, I was no longer John H. Watson, M.D., but instead a young man who coolly refused a female students' offer of a dance as I sat inside a bar, alone and drinking only water; I was that same young man, fighting a fifth round in the boxing ring when neither I nor my opponent could bear to leave our match unwon yet unable to make any strides in the fight, while around me his friends jeered and my corner was empty; I was that same young man, slightly older and immeasurably more certain of my purpose, looking with pride at a building I had just rented a room in, knowing it would be the very first practice of the world's very first consulting detective.

These memories, and more besides, played through my mind, quick snippets of a life lived mostly in solitude; I felt as though I was the lead actor on a theatre stage set up only for me, where I could do nothing but follow the script.

Then, once again, I was thrown back into my own body, master of my actions once more. Experiencing the memories of another was a deeply disturbing experience, and I should be very glad to never experience its like again.

I stared at Holmes, transfixed, as his face turned extremely pale and he stumbled back. Somehow he managed to avoid upsetting any of the piles, and leaning himself over one he stared back at me.

"Holmes, is this... Was that..." I asked, my voice trembling.

Holmes gave a wan smile. "Yes, Watson, I think it is. This place would appear to be my very own Locus, as you are suspecting."

He shuddered, and I resolved not to take this opportunity to pry into his past more than I already had. If I was to learn about Holmes, then I would do so fairly and honorably; our friendship demanded no less.

I looked about the attic with renewed interest. "I don't know what I was expecting Loci to be like, but it was not this."

Now fully aware of the origins of this strange place, I looked at it with much more interest.

The piles of books on the floor and in the bookshelves: these would be Holmes' memories. I ventured a guess that the books in the shelves would be those he cherished more, but I did not allow myself to experiment and find out. Heaven forbid I should by some means accidentally damage his mind forever!

Then there were the miscellaneous objects scattered throughout the room, which I could now place as belonging to Holmes. Set carefully atop a little island of books laid his prized violin, a Stradivarius he had rescued from a second-hand shop, whose owner he had helped with some small matter. Another island held a chemistry set, which I had often seen Holmes use - such as when investigating traces of dirt, winning him the evidence he needed to definitively solve a case.

I looked around me and saw many more of these objects - a trophy which he must have won for boxing, at some point; the Persian slipper in which he stored his tobacco was laying atop one of the immense bookcases; I was sure that, were I able to spot the walls, I would be able to see that Victoria Regina which he had pockmarked into the walls of 221B Baker Street with his pistol.

"Please, Watson," Holmes said, still not entirely recovered from that queer sensation he must have experienced when I had seen those memories of his. "Take care not to upset any of the books, if you would be so kind. It is a most unpleasant feeling, much like the expression that someone is walking on your grave."

I slowly, deliberately walked over to Holmes, and lent him a hand to help him upright. Holmes, however, waved me off, and stood under his own power, though his movements were unsteady and shaky.

Holmes chuckled. "I must say, when I first spoke of my mind as an attic, I had not meant to be literal." He looked around his own mind with significant interest, observing its confines, its lack of visible walls, even its low roof. An expression of nostalgia came about his face - Holmes would later confide that he had spent countless hours in his childhood home's attic, reading every book he could get his hands on, absorbing knowledge like a sponge would absorb water.

Later, of course, we learned that that very phrasing - presenting Holmes' mind as an attic - was what had caused its reshaping into this current environment, bound together with the nostalgic memories of his childhood. 

He gently touched one of the books - a different one than those I had touched by accident - and, though he grimaced at whatever memory it contained within its pages, I was not privy to it. I said as much, and Holmes nodded, as if this confirmed a theory of his; in any case, I was gladdened that I should not intrude on his privacy even further.

Together, we investigated the odd room as much as we dared. We moved past shelf after shelf, each filled with books. I conjectured these to be responsible for Holmes' encyclopedic knowledge of many subjects, though they had no titles or any other indication as to their contents.

However, no matter how far we went from the point at which we had entered the attic, we saw no loft hatch which would lead us elsewhere, no ladder which might take us down into the house proper. The room seemed endless, and after a while Holmes uttered a strange sound of dismay.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked, for the route between precarious piles was too small for a man with shoulders as broad as mine.

"It is nothing," he said, but for the first time I could detect apprehension in his voice. I resolved to make my way towards him, because it was very rare for him to show any sort of negative emotion at all; as a friend, I felt I owed it to him to see what this was, and perhaps offer some solution.

Yet what I saw was far from what anything I had predicted. I had presumed it to be some terrible memory which haunted even the unflappable Holmes since he had first seen it: the very first time he had seen a corpse, or the death of a parent, or perhaps even that terrible moment where he had fallen from that cliff-side at Reichenbach to his seeming death, forced to cling to the scant few outcroppings he could grab, while above him stalked armed men out for his blood.

All that I would have expected and, to some degree, could have dealt with. What I saw instead was a bizarre green flame which was currently burning one of the islands of books, turning whatever memories or wisdom they contained to mere ashes. It was out of place in this carefully curated palace of knowledge, an intruder which had no place here.

I somehow knew that this process of burning the books was irreversible, that the memory could never be regained. I rushed forwards in a desperate attempt to save the books and their contents. To Holmes, his mind was everything; he might, eventually, find it in himself to spend the rest of his days physically less capable, but losing any knowledge or his intelligence would be a blow from which he would be unable to recover.

Yet as I ran as fast as I could towards the book, I saw Holmes standing next to the pile, looking - of all things - resigned, as if he had known that this would happen and having made some measure of peace with it.

"Holmes, by God!" I shouted. "Help me put this fire out!"

But he remained standing there, unable to even look me in the eye. His shame was apparent, as was his inability to act against this malignant infection of his mind.

The realization, then, hit me like a hammer blow. I knew in a flash what this green flame symbolized, why Holmes should not attempt to put out the fire. I looked around the fire, and saw that my suspicions were confirmed.

Near the foot of the burning books, I saw a small syringe, laying broken on the floor. Whatever drug it had contained, it was what had started the fire eating at Holmes' mind.

It had long been Holmes' habit, whenever our caseload ran dry for long stretches of time and his mind was unoccupied, to forcefully fill his life with the excitement he so sorely needed to keep that great machine in his head turning - and the method he chose was, to my great regret, drugs. More specifically, a seven-percent solution of cocaine, which he injected into his arm via syringe.

I had done my very best to curb this addiction, as I saw it as Holmes' only vice, which would be no doubt disastrous for his health, both physical and mental. However, I was aware that no addiction could ever be truly cured: this great vice of his was not dead, merely sleeping, and sleeping fitfully at that.

On some nights, indeed, I lay awake, wondering if Holmes' many excursions, upon which he often left without me, were not an excuse to find more of the drug and imbibe it once more. I felt ashamed at these thoughts, for I in most other matters trusted Holmes more than I did myself.

Now, I saw with my own eyes the ravages which the drug had already wrought upon Holmes' psyche. This was not the first pile of books the flames had claimed; I could see, a little further along, the ashes which must belong to a previous pile, and I could only wonder at what Holmes must already have lost.

Desperate to save my dear friend, I took one of the books from the burning pile and attempted without success to put it out.

However, at that time, the green fire, which had been blazing without taking notice of me, suddenly surged. With the heat striking me about the face, I stumbled backwards and gave a cry as I tripped over another set of books. My weight on top of them prevented the books from playing out their memories, fortunately.

I saw immediately that the fire surged higher and higher, its flames forming not the idle tongues that an ordinary fire might, but building upon themselves to build a great man-like giant of fire, whose head reached the ceiling while it was crouching over the books.

It extended one of its burning limbs towards Holmes, who could only stand there in shame and dejection as his Locus became a conflagration, and pulled it towards him; miraculously, his clothes did not catch fire, although I could attest to the searing heat which the flames emitted.

To my horror, after pulling my friend to its side - almost, I would suggest, in a possessive manner - it surged, again, towards me. It had recognized me as being someone who might stop it from devouring this space and all of the books contained within.

I reached for my service firearm, but I had not taken it with me, unsuspecting of the dangers we might face. I cursed my oversight as I dove to one side to evade a fist made entirely of fire, barreling straight into another pile of books. Holmes gave a cry, from where he was standing to the side, but otherwise remained silent and impassive.

Faced with this monstrosity and its gigantic reach, I was entirely out of options. I could not rightfully escape while Holmes was still here, but neither did I have any weapons with which to combat it. Once more, like at Maiwand, I was confronted with my own uselessness.

A sharp pain rang through my head; I almost thought I could hear a voice, though I could not decipher its murmured words.

The fiend, however, took no notice of this, and merely swung another fist at me, confident in its own ability to strike me down.

As the fist approached me, searing heat blazing towards my head to finish me off, I once more felt that sharp pain and fell to my knees in agony. My shoulder throbbed like it had when that bullet had pierced through. Unbidden, scenes from my life came to mind.

I thought of Maiwand, where I had been carried off the battlefield like so much luggage while all around me other men died that I might have saved.

I thought of Holmes, plunging down the Reichenbach Falls, locked into deadly combat with Moriarty, while I could only stand there, watch, and weep.

I thought of my wife, Mary, who had died a mere year after Holmes had seemingly passed, and my own inability to cure her of her fatal sickness despite my status as a physician and my best efforts.

As the fist swung towards me, suddenly slow and ponderous, I recalled those scenes and the feeling of helplessness which they inspired in me.

And I then thought, _"No more."_

**Thou art I.**

The blazing heat was gone, replaced immediately with the pleasant chill of a winter morning. My wound throbbed like a second heartbeat, yet I embraced the pain.

**I art Thou.**

The burning fist which had been thrown at me was blown backwards and destroyed entirely, its flames dissipating like snow under the sun. Winds tore through the attic, stirring awake pages from the countless books, their susurration music to my ears.

**Call upon my name, and master thine own destiny!**

And I did. 

"Llud!" I screamed in exhilaration, in rage, in desperation, and more. Something that had long slumbered inside me answered.

I felt more than saw behind me a presence manifest into the Locus. The figure was that of a man wielding a spear with obvious expertise, his whole body clad in bizarre golden bandages and wearing an ancient warrior's garb. One of his arms, I knew, had been amputated at the elbow, having been replaced with a prosthetic made entirely of divine silver, but which was fully functional despite this seeming infirmity.

With it behind me, I felt calm and collected despite the desperate situation. I and Llud sprinted forwards, howling a sonorous warcry at the top of our lungs. In a perfect rugby tackle we slammed into the fiend before us, knocking it back onto its haunches.

But Holmes, I saw, was not yet free, and I would not leave him behind. I crushed the card which had somehow found its way into my hands with savage need, and with a thrust of its spear Llud manifested ice all around our enemy, which shrunk back at the cold and howled its fury.

I tore at its arm of fire, and somehow clawed Holmes back from its grip. He was wide-eyed, staring at me and the phantom of my will made manifest and then the terrible thing his drug consumption had created. I shoved him behind me, out of the way of a fireball that I only barely managed to dispel with Llud's spear.

The fiend howled once more at me, and though Llud hacked at it time and again I could not manage to extinguish its innermost spark. I destroyed its limbs, slashed at its head, and yet I could only force it back. It seemed it would not die down so easily.

I stood as a guardian before Holmes, my breath coming in short bursts as I exerted my entire being upon trying to vanquish this foe, but my efforts were futile. The stress was taking its toll upon me, a headache forming and Llud's presence weakening.

While I could see that, after it had been separated from Holmes, its strength was flagging somewhat, there was no way I could create enough distance that it could be killed entirely.

The thought of escape, then, came to me. I looked at the card which Igor had given me, which I somehow knew had been the catalyst for this awakening, and realized that as it had taken us here, it should be able to take us back again.

"Holmes," I shouted, "Take your card and get back to London!"

Then I knocked back the fiend to give us space, encasing its feet in ice to make sure it could not interfere with our escape.

Mercifully, Holmes awoke from his amazement and, taking his card in hand, he shouted, "Hanged Man!"

But, to my despair, nothing happened.

We were trapped in Holmes' Locus, caught inside his mind while a conflagration did its best to burn everything to cinders and destroy us.


	3. The Strength & The Hanged Man, part 2

The situation seemed hopeless. Despite my recent awakening to some spiritual power, I was but a single man, unable to stand up to the bonfire which threatened to swallow both Holmes and me whole.

Llud batted at the fire with its spear and the blasts of chilling air it produced out of nowhere, but while it could curb the giant fiend's fire from growing beyond its current confines, it could not inflict any permanent damage.

Behind us stood Holmes, the look in his eyes desperate, as he clutched at the card which had brought us here. He repeated its name as though it was a mystical mantra, murmuring "Hanged Man", shifting his tone of voice with all the skill of a consummate actor but lacking his usual poise.

Finally he gave up. "Watson," he said, looking in my direction, "leave me behind."

"I refuse," I shouted. My awakening had come about through realizing I wished for strength enough to never feel hopeless again. How then could I abandon my dearest friend to a fate unknown?

"You do not understand, Watson!" he shouted back. "This inferno is my own damned fault!"

Holmes sagged back over a pile of books, as if this confession had taken a great deal of effort to say.

"It is my own fault," he repeated in a softer tone. "I was a fool, Watson. When you opened that book, we both experienced a memory. I grasped immediately that this place was my own mind, and that by manipulating it I might manipulate my mind in turn. Therefore, I thought to rid myself of an evil that has long plagued me."

He flagged, then continued, "When I myself opened a book and you showed no signs of experiencing that memory, I had decided upon a course of action which would, in the worst possible outcome, leave you entirely unharmed and make only me suffer whatever consequences would occur."

Holmes gestured at the syringe, which still lay in shards of broken glass at the foot of the fiery giant. "I thought that, by shattering the symbol of my longstanding addiction, I could for once and for all shatter the drug's hold over me. What a fool I was!"

"Holmes, get a hold of yourself!" I shouted, stepping towards him and seizing him by the lapels of his smoking jacket, gripped by some furious anger. Holmes was one of the proudest men I knew, and I felt him to be entirely deservedly so. To see him denigrate himself felt almost like a betrayal.

"You are no fool, Holmes," I shouted. "Your failing is that you are a man but wish to be a mere brain without a heart! If you have made a mistake, then it is not that you took direct action to resolve your addiction, but that you try to escape the responsibility for fixing it!"

Yet Holmes could still not look me in the eye.

"Think back to the contract!" I shouted.

"I recall it," said Holmes dejectedly, "but what of it?"

"It made us honor-bound to solve a case, Holmes. And yet, has the case been solved? Have we made any strides at all in uncovering the interloper?" I asked.

"No," said Holmes, and to my immense relief this gambit worked; I saw some color come back into his face. "We have not, have we?"

"Then what are you waiting for? Stand up, accept responsibility for your fault, and let us find a solution!" I shouted.

Holmes, to his own evident amazement, stood up again from the books he had been leaning on. He looked at me, and quietly, he said, "Thank you, John."

But I had no time to respond to his thanks or his usage of my Christian name; I had had to turn back towards the monstrosity which had recovered its poise, and which had crept nearer while our conversation had gone on. It had regained strength from coming nearer to Holmes, and it was ready to strike, I saw, its fist cocked back like a boxer ready to let loose an immense haymaker. 

I guarded myself as best I could, crossing Llud's spear and silver hand in front of myself and bending my knees so to absorb as much of the impact to the best of my ability. 

Holmes, I trusted, would make his escape, and then I might take this flaming demon with me into that dark abyss of death. He could survive without me, I was sure.

But he did no such thing, to his eternal credit. Instead, he stepped quickly forward, squared his shoulders, and planted his feet solidly besides mine. One of his hands flew to his temple, as a voice much like the one I had heard earlier whispered words I could not understand.

We stood together as the fist of fire reached us, and were both thrown by the force behind it. I was lifted from my feet and slammed into a pile of books as tall as a man, and the world swam before my eyes. I groaned in pain.

Yet I saw Holmes, entirely unaffected by the seeming-mortal blow, stand up straighter, balling his fists, settling into an unorthodox boxing stance, and exhaling with purpose.

**Thou art I.**

There came that strange voice again, which had spoken to me as well in my Awakening. I was awed by the realization that surely, Holmes must be undergoing the very same process. I looked at his face, and saw his eyes turn from their customary piercing blue to an unnatural yellow, which almost seemed to shine in their brightness. Had the same happened to me? I could not say for certain it had not.

**I art Thou.**

Now that I could see it happen to another, I realized that the voice came from a presence looking as if over Holmes' shoulder, little more than an indistinct shadow that loomed over him. While Llud, I felt, would have loomed over me protectively, this other presence leaned forward to study its opponent intently, preparing itself as if to strike.

**Call upon my name, and let us begin our sacred hunt!**

Holmes threw back his head and shouted. "Herne!" he cried, and he was answered in turn.

Verdant nature bloomed into being behind him, a true cornucopia of plants, some of which I recognized and most of which I did not. From it rose what Holmes called Herne. It was clad in hunting clothes, which all had been painted jet black; at its heels I saw suggestions of other specters, which Herne kept at bay with ease. Its hands and feet were bound with enormous, rattling chains, which extended from no place I could see. From the crown of its head grew immense antlers of bare bone, like those of a stag.

From this, I recalled that its proper name must be Herne the Hunter, that specter which haunted the Windsor Forest.

Holmes turned to me and helped me up from where I laid between the books.

Llud suddenly called to me, and I felt its energy course through my body, knitting closed my wounds and allowing me to catch my breath. It spoke to me through our connection, saying the words to a healing spell, which I had never heard before but which seemed intimately familiar: "Dia."

"It is time we ended this, Watson," Holmes said, and I could see that his golden pupils had returned to being their normal blue.

I nodded forcefully. "Of course, Holmes."

Together, we focused once more on the titan of flame that had been kept at bay by Holmes' awakening. Far from looking overbearing and invincible, it now looked smaller, weakened. It had lost its grip over Holmes, both physically and mentally, so that it could no longer borrow his formidable mental powers and his connection to the Locus, but had to rely purely on its own strength.

Herne snarled, and without a visible signal from Holmes it tore forward, flashing through the distance between us and our opponent in a mere breath's time and ramming head-first into the adversary. 

The fiery giant was forced to take step after step back, in an attempt to stabilize itself, but that was not something I could allow. Llud showered it with blasts of ice, encasing one of its arms to the shoulder, rendering it nonfunctional. Then, with a mighty hew of its spear, it chopped the arm off entirely, leaving only a stump while the amputated limb dissolved into a harmless flash of green fire.

We advanced, I and Holmes both, feeling like we were invincible; like Heracles, perhaps, fighting the hydra. Though the fire howled and surged, it could do nothing against the both of us working in concert.

With a single swing of his rattling chains, Herne bound the giant's only remaining arm, and then tore it from its body, howling in exultation. Storm-winds pulled at the giant's leg, sending it crashing to the floor.

"Now, Watson!" Holmes cried, and I leapt atop our enemy and struck it in its chest with my fist, employing all my might to do so. To my side I saw Holmes bearing his weighed riding crop and bringing it down upon the giant's face with brutal precision.

It worked; the fire began to sputter and weaken. The books which had been on fire extinguished of their own accord, one after another, and the damned heat which had permeated the attic simmered down until the whole of the room was once more back to its pleasant cool.

Our foe had not been entirely vanquished as of yet, but only a single one of its malignant green flames remained, unable to reform itself into a human shape, or able to show its animal intelligence and brutality.

"Look, Watson," said Holmes, and he gestured at it. "This is what kept me in its grip for years on end."

But I did not even bother to look at it, and merely grunted. My energy was almost entirely spent, our exertions in defeating this monster surpassing the exercise I had taken in quite some years by far. The Loci, too, drained my energy merely by our presence here, as I would later learn.

Holmes, too, spared it not a moment's thought more. He lifted his hand, an action echoed by Herne, and clenched it into a fist, speaking a magic word to cast his spell; the flame was buffeted by the winds Holmes had called, sputtered out, and died. 

The danger over, Llud and Herne faded into nothingness, though I knew I could call Llud back into being whenever I so wished.

Where the flame had been, a syringe emerged, an exact copy of the one Holmes had crushed earlier. But this one was still whole, still filled with that strange substance I could not name. It seemed almost to be made of liquid shadow.

"Holmes," I said, the first words to a warning not to repeat his foolishness - a warning which turned out, thank God, to be unnecessary.

He held up a hand, bent over, and picked up the syringe, studying it under the strange half-light of the Locus.

"A good memento, I should think," he said. He caught my look, and the remonstration which was about to fall from my lips, and continued: "Nothing more than a memento, Watson. I have lost enough memories today already, and this one will serve another purpose in never allowing me to forget what has happened." 

Holmes righted a pile of books and placed the syringe neatly on top of it. The attic felt, immediately, wider, less narrow and confined.

"Now what, Holmes?" I asked, once we had both caught our breaths.

In response he retrieved the card he had received from Igor from his pocket.

"Now I pray that we are returned to London, Watson," he said, and gripped it tight.

He concentrated on the card and said, softly, "Hanged Man."

Blessedly, that same sensation we had felt earlier, of the ground shaking beneath our feet and being thrown about, returned, though this time we welcomed it with open arms.

Ripples flooded through my sight, and everything faded into blessed white light once more.

We reappeared, this time without incident or physical injury, in our sitting room in London. From a quick glance at the clock, we could see that it had been somehow no more than an hour since we had left; everything had been left exactly as we had left it.

I had never been happier to see 221B Baker Street, though I suppose at the time any familiar location in London could have provided me with nearly as much relief.

Sagging back into my comfortable chair by the fire, I looked across from me to see Holmes studying me with a queer look upon his face.

"What is the matter, Holmes?" I asked.

"Nothing, Watson. In fact, there is nothing at all. I was merely seeing if you were quite all right."

The thought came to me that perhaps the passage back to our world had altered me in some way, but it did not feel that way to me. Nevertheless, curiosity bade me to find a hand-mirror and check for myself.

Nothing had changed about me. Perhaps, I fancied, the look on my face had gotten more resolute and heroic, but mostly I spent some time fussing over my once-neatly arranged mustache and attempting to catch my breath. I manifested no symptoms of being somehow different, like the yellow eyes I had seen Holmes temporarily manifest.

Holmes, too, seemed perfectly the same as before we had left, though far paler and like me out of breath. He could find no changes about himself or me, which was an enormous relief. Yet he seemed to be concentrating on something.

"Can you summon Llud, Watson?" he abruptly asked.

I called, and from the comfort that spread through me I could feel it had responded. Yet no presence manifested over me, nor did I feel that pleasant winter-morning chill.

"I cannot," I answered, "In fact, it feels somewhat muted compared to how it was in the Locus. It feels as if there is distance between me and Llud, or perhaps some sort of intangible barrier."

"Exactly," said Holmes. "That is how it feels to me, as well. There is some response from Herne, but it comes as if from far away."

A thought occurred to me, entirely separate from this line of conversation. "Do you agree that we can now take Igor at his word, Holmes?"

But Holmes shook his head. "We cannot as of yet, Watson. We know that he is right about the Loci existing, but we have not proved anything else yet."

"Surely we can trust him to some extent?" I protested.

"To some extent, yes. However, I would not trust him to any significant degree. Think, Watson," he urged. "He has granted us access to the Polis, yes. That is indeed true. However, what are his motives for doing so? I cannot definitively conclude they are as benign as he makes them seem. He claims to be a messenger for someone else, but why would either of them not merely deal with this problem on their own?"

"Perhaps he and his patron are in some way restricted from meddling in the affairs of mortals?" I suggested. 

"It is a good theory, Watson; you are in very fine form today," Holmes said, and I warmed from his compliment. "But a theory is all it is. I believe Igor said something to that effect, but here's the rub: how do we know Igor is not lying to us constantly? We can only experience everything for ourselves and make our own conclusions!"

"You are being quite uncharitable," I pointed out, as I had no other answer to his questions. But Holmes took this in stride.

"I will risk being uncharitable, as long as it keeps us alive, Watson. We came quite close to death earlier. If not for our fortuitous awakenings, who knows what could have happened? Igor gave us no weapons except these cards, and he did not deign to explain them in any detail. Perhaps he felt mere words would not be enough to make us understand, but even then his explanations were rather sparse. I, personally, cannot trust him just yet."

He stood up, by this time fully recovered in mind and spirit, and walked about the room.

"In fact, Watson, that brings me to another question. What is this power we have awakened to? Igor made no mention of it that I can recall. Was he not aware of it, or was he not allowed to mention it to us?"

"Perhaps," I conjectured, "it was the desperate circumstances which allowed it to awaken at all, and mentioning it would diminish our ability to do so."

"Perhaps," Holmes allowed. "But then he threw us into lethal danger deliberately, Watson."

"He did warn us, though," I said.

"I see Igor has found in you a tireless advocate," he said, chuckling. "And to think you were ready to doubt him just an hour ago!"

I admit to blushing at this, and Holmes, of course, noticed.

"You are, perhaps, still somewhat convinced he is an angel, Watson?" he joked. His sudden turn to good cheer felt somewhat forced, but I welcomed it nonetheless; I was in no mood for intrigue at the moment.

Holmes walked to the liquor cabinet, and pulled out a bottle of good brandy. He took two glasses, set them on the table, and poured us both a good finger's worth.

"To our surviving our first trip into the Polis," he said, as if offering an impromptu toast.

"Hear, hear," I said, somewhat bemused, and we both drank down the brandy. Its warmth coursed through me, and the little aches I had borne ever since returning felt just that bit more manageable.

Holmes set his glass aside and regarded me seriously. "I must say, Watson, you have done me a service I cannot possibly repay."

I was touched. "Holmes, please. It is what any gentleman should have done for his friend, no more."

"If only that was true," he said, chuckling, "then we should not have half as many adventures."

And, segueing from there into pleasant conversation, we whiled away the rest of the afternoon.

It is at this point that I will break from my narrative for a brief interlude. I should, normally, weave these following facts into the story through some artful conversation with Holmes or another personage; yet the information presented here was collected in scraps and bits not merely that day but throughout the year. I have taken to establishing some terminology here, in the hope of not confusing the reader unduly.

Those spirits which we had summoned, I the Welsh hero Llud Llaw Eraint and Holmes the English specter Herne the Hunter, were in some way reflections of our innermost selves. Holmes and I hunted for a term with which to describe this class of being, and eventually after some research we chanced upon the psychological term "alter-ego", which seemed to us to be as apt a descriptor as any other we had found.

In any case, due to the afternoon's excitement, it was some time before Holmes and I dared once more to cross over to the Polis. We found ourselves once more in that attic, though this time there were no more mishaps and we were able to explore it without further incident. Wherever we left for the Polis was also where we would return.

We also confirmed that I or Holmes could, without the other being present, also cross over, and that the destination in which we arrived was bound to the card we selected as our means for travel. Thankfully, Holmes allowed me to discover my own Locus by myself, which I arrived at by using my Strength card; while this somewhat upset my sense of fair play, it also assuaged my sense of wishing my mind to remain my own private property, and thus I gratefully accepted his offer of never intruding upon my mind without my express permission. That will be all I say on the topic of my Locus.

In addition, we realized that merely being present in a Locus was enough to drain us of our energy, although it was thankfully a mercifully slow process, in some ways being reminiscent of being at a high altitude where every task required more energy to perform. By Holmes' estimate, we could spend at the very least an hour in the Polis without suffering any ill effects, however temporary.

After some time spent searching the attic, we eventually hit upon the realization that Holmes had some measure of control over his Locus, and to find its exit he must first imagine there to be one; a hatch then spontaneously manifested itself upon the floor.

However, that hatch led nowhere that we could ascertain, merely a dark void that stretched into infinity, and we decided not to chance it just yet. Perhaps it was because of the foreboding nature of that step we had to take to get to the outside; perhaps it was because of the danger we had already encountered in this very same Locus; perhaps it was because of Igor's warning. I really cannot say which reason weighed the heaviest on our minds.

In the meanwhile, of course, our ordinary lives resumed as if nothing had occurred. I spent some time at my Kensington practice, taking up some patients of Dr. Jackson - a colleague of mine, who did the same for me whenever I should find myself on the heels of a case with Holmes.

Holmes, meanwhile, was involved in several minor inquiries, none of which quite merit inclusion in these documents; they were, for the most part, inconsequential to the point of near-banality, and did not involve any occultic influences.

It was, in fact, only the 22nd when we finally received a significant new case, and it is there that I shall resume my narrative.


	4. The Lovers, Part 1

It was the early afternoon of the 22nd of January; I had just finished my daily rounds, and was now trudging through the meager snow that dusted the London streets to my lodgings at 221B Baker Street. I could have called a hansom, but as part of a New Year's Resolution to have more exercise than I had had last year, I had walked instead.

My breath puffed into mist and I walked slower than I usually would have, mindful of the dangerous sleet. Still, I was in an excellent mood; I had found that, ever since my spiritual awakening, I had gained some affinity for the cold, which made the afternoon air feel quite pleasant - though I had not trusted this newfound ability to the point of going without my thick coat.

However, as I turned the corner to Baker Street, I saw a hansom dropping off a passenger and leaving; at first, I figured it must be Holmes, but soon I realized that this other man was not nearly as tall, nor possess nearly as purposeful a gait. When he began to pace back and forth before our door, my suspicions were confirmed: he must be someone who hoped to consult Holmes' expertise.

"Excellent," I thought; it had been some time since Holmes had had an engaging case, and I hoped that this might enliven him somewhat. I had no fear of him returning to the embrace of some drug or another, but that did not preclude him finding other ways to alleviate his boredom.

I passed by the gentleman, but as he had his back turned to me at that moment I could make no deductions as to his identity or his status. No matter; Holmes would figure him out soon enough.

When I had divested myself of my overcoat and had gratefully accepted Mrs. Hudson's offer of a warm drink, I joined Holmes in our sitting room. He had - judging by the smells coming from his room - been doing some sort of chemical experiment.

"You have a client, I believe," I said offhand, and he nodded.

"Quite, Watson. What can you tell me about him?" he asked.

I considered this carefully. "He's a gentleman, I should think. He wore a thick coat of what seems to me to have been of good quality. I caught only a glimpse of him from the front and can make no conclusions from his face, but going by his gait I think he should be rather advanced in age. Since he paced in front of our lodgings, I furthermore conclude that the matter should be of some personal and agitating nature; he is here on his own behalf, not that as an intermediary for someone else."

Holmes applauded. "Very good, Watson, if somewhat basic. I see the exercise has indeed been good to you, on both the physical and mental levels."

"What else can you tell me about him, Holmes?" I probed.

"Merely that he is quite the miser; second, that his marriage should not be a particularly happy one; thirdly, that it is a private matter, not one to be brought to the police."

"What leads you to conclude all that, Holmes?" I asked; by this point I had seen him deduce facts from those clues which meant nothing to me, but the way in which he did remained near-miraculous to me until he deigned to explain himself.

"You will think them to be obvious when I explain them, Watson," Holmes said. "But very well. 

To see what I have seen, Watson, you must merely observe his coat. It is, as you said, of good quality. However, I can see even from across the street that it has been patched up multiple times. Hence, I should wager it is a present of some sort, since he is so clearly loathe to buy another for himself. See how he rubs his hands, Watson: it is no longer quite so effective at holding back that typical London chill.

From the same source I deduced that his marriage is not a particularly happy one - or, more specifically, that it is not anymore. His wife has clearly not done her hardest to make the patches fit the coat, and nor is it properly cleaned. He either has an unloving wife, or a truly lazy servant. Knowing that he is a miser, the wife seems most likely to be the culprit, as it were."

"Yes, I follow you so far, Holmes," I said. "But what about the fact he has not gone to the police?"

"Patience, Watson," chided Holmes. "I was getting to that. We might conclude that he has not gone to the police for the simple reason that he is here alone, and furthermore that he is pacing before our doorstep. A gentleman would not consider involving a private detective instead of the official forces of Scotland Yard unless the matter was quite private, and his hesitation further leads me to believe it must be private indeed."

"We shall see," I said, for I was not entirely convinced by this chain of reasoning.

"We shall, Watson, for I believe he has made up his mind and is coming up now."

Mr. Abrams, as he was announced by the boy in buttons, came in and took the usual seat directly opposite Holmes, with me sitting to the side. He was, I saw, a broadly built man, with his jacket hardly fitting around his stomach, about sixty years in age. Holmes was right about his coat having patches, and the same extended to the rest of his clothes. Notably his top hat, which had clearly not seen a brush in some time.

"Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Abrams, wringing his hands, "I would not ordinarily come to you with such a sensitive matter, but I have heard of your extraordinary discretion in these sorts of things." He looked at me askance.

"You have nothing to worry about, sir," responded Holmes, "for I trust Dr. Watson very much, and he is nothing if not discreet."

"And your fees, sir?"

"Upon a fixed scale, Mr. Abrams. Should I not resolve your question, my services will be entirely free."

Mr. Abrams nodded and launched into his account without further ado. As per usual I have trimmed it somewhat, as to present only those facts which are necessary to the telling.

"I am a clerk, Mr. Holmes, based out of Guildford; I have, I am sad to say, have not had much luck throughout my life, though I shall not bore you with the details. But a year ago, I finally had an investment which turned out, I may say, exceptionally well, and I have since come into some money.

Of course, I like to think of myself as a cautious man. Instead of bandying about that I had recently gained riches, I told no one except my family, which consists of me, my wife and our daughter, Mary.

However, I suspect that somehow, some rumour must have leaked, for suddenly my daughter was courted by a young man none of us had ever met before, a lad by the name of Thomas Morrison."

He twisted his hands again. "To put it plainly, gentlemen," he said, "my daughter is no great prize. Yet Tom - as she calls him - is a handsome fellow, educated and well-read, who seems to have seen quite a bit of what the world has to offer, if you understand my meaning.

I was suspicious from the very minute I met him, gentlemen - not just the concern of a father for a daughter, either. Something about him rubbed me wrong, though I cannot put a finger on it.

Well, I talked to the lad after that, of course. I had to know more about him before I would accept this whirlwind courtship, you see. His answers were quite properly in order: he was a clerk at a new London firm, which would explain why I had not heard of it; his grandfather had been an investor who had blown the family's money on faulty investments, and though he could not name which these would be, he spoke with such conviction on the topic that I believed him. Like that it went, and since all seemed in order, I tentatively gave my word that the marriage could go ahead."

"But you have come to regret this decision?" asked Holmes, interrupting the account.

"Not quite yet, Mr. Holmes. But I cannot shake this feeling of unease, and it grows day by day. I cannot say that my instincts have led me to make the wisest investments, sir, but I do not think they point me wrong in this."

"Perhaps, perhaps," said Holmes noncommittally.

He leaned forward in his chair, and I knew from his pose that he was about to fire a number of questions.

"Do you have any maids or other servants which might have overheard your reporting these recent gains, Mr. Abrams?"

"No," said he, "I only have a single servant, a cook, who I have employed for several years already and who I trust. Furthermore, I took some pains to lock the doors and make sure no one could be listening in when I told my family."

"Then perhaps your wife or daughter could have told someone?"

Mr. Abrams sighed. "They could have, sir, but my wife is very nearly as retiring as I. Besides church, she only goes to a local charitable organization, and she swears she has told no one there. My daughter could have told someone, I suppose, but I told her only an abridged version of the facts, so that she thinks my winnings are not that considerable a sum."

"Where did she meet Mr. Morrison?"

"Some sort of ballroom, I think. I have often disapproved of her going to such events, but children!" He sighed deeply. "You must know how they are, Mr. Holmes. Rebellious in a dozen minor ways."

But Holmes brought him back on track swiftly. "Can you describe Mr. Morrison for us?"

"He is, as I said, a handsome lad, with a strong chin, blond hair, and broad shoulders. He wears a beard, but no mustache. I would say he is about three or four years older than my daughter, which would make him about twenty and seven."

"He has no distinguishing features about him? No scars, no tattoos, no wounds?"

"None that I know of, sir."

"Can you recall which firm it was, at which Mr. Morrison worked?"

"Merrill & Gordon's, I think. I cannot recall hearing of it before, but I sent a telegram just in case and they assured me they have a clerk by that name and description."

"Hum, hum! This has some features of interest indeed, Mr. Abrams," Holmes said. "I shall investigate with all haste, of course. "

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Abrams with obvious relief. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I hadn't told my wife that I'd be consulting with you, so I must get going if I'm to be back on time. Good-bye."

When he had gone back out into the cold, Holmes lit his pipe, and sat there a while, thinking.

"Should we not go speak to this Mr. Morrison ourselves, Holmes?" I asked, after I thought his attention must have drifted elsewhere. 

"All in time, Watson," said Holmes. "But yes, you're right. Be so good as to look up an early train to Guildford in the Bradshaw, if you would. Now, if you don't mind, I shall be heading out until sometime this evening."

Having said that, he grabbed his coat and went out, though where-to I did not know.

The next morning, we took the train to Guildford. One of the tasks to which he had set himself was, he said, to wire Mr. Abrams, to inform him of our arrival.

He met us at the station, having hired a cab for the day, an expense which he seemed ill at ease with.

"Have you arranged Mr. Morrison to be present, Mr. Abrams?"

Mr. Abrams wrung his hands, a nervous tic which, now that Holmes had pointed it out to me on the way, I could not stop noticing. "I have, Mr. Holmes," he said. "Like you suggested in your telegram, I called him to the house on account of some trifles which needed to be arranged before the marriage. It is true that some of these documents need to be arranged, so I do not think he should be suspicious."

"Excellent. Now then, Watson, you shall for the duration of our visit be Mr. Ernest, and I shall similarly play the role of Mr. Cole. We two are old friends, of course, of Mr. Abrams, here on some minor business. When the lad visits, we shall learn of the impending marriage, and shall therefore clap young Mr. Morrison on the back and wish him all the best. Is this agreeable to you?"

It was, and I said as much. To my relief, Holmes saw no need for me to disguise myself this time, and for himself he merely added a small mustache and adopted a somewhat more stooped gait, as well as a lisp which I shall not bother to transcribe.

Eventually, the cab arrived at Mr. Abrams' mansion, a house which fit him like a glove. It must have once been quite the beautiful building, and I would guess that it would have been built some hundred-odd years before, when Guildford had not yet found the prosperity it enjoys today. Unfortunately, Mr. Abrams must have been loathe to renovate it, leading to it looking quite dilapidated.

Once inside, we retreated into the office, which was, I must say, a rather sombre room, only sparsely decorated. Still, there we passed some nervous minutes by discussing some trifles amongst ourselves, though Holmes remained tight-lipped on what exactly he had done yesterday.

Finally, we heard the sound of a door opening, then being shut once more; we knew that this must be Mr. Morrison, which was quickly borne out by the fact he knocked politely at the door to the study and announced himself.

"Come in, come in," said Mr. Abrams, and he opened the door to usher in Mr. Morrison, though the small office could barely hold four people.

Thomas Morrison was as Mr. Abrams had described him: tall, broad-shouldered, fair-haired. I should wager that he played rugby in his youth, as I myself did the same and never lost the knack of sizing up our opponents.

However, if there was one thing that distracted from his winsome appearance, then that was his eyes. They were a dull grey, not merely in color but also in affectation. He had a way of looking at you, as if he was inwardly guessing at your circumstances and how he might profit from them.

"Who are these people, sir?" Morrison asked, looking at us quite queerly. Perhaps he suspected something, or perhaps he found it odd that his prospective father-in-law would have more than a single visitor a day.

"We are old friends and colleagues of Mr. Abrams, sir. Quite old, eh, what?" Holmes said while bounding forward, the very picture of an excitable older gentleman. If nothing else, the smile this charade gave me made my own smile more authentic, as I introduced myself as Mr. Ernest.

"Just here on some trifles, you know," Holmes continued, grinning quite widely. I have often said that the world lost a great thespian when he became a detective, a remark from which Holmes derived no small pleasure; this time, too, his performance was remarkably convincing.

Morrison smiled, those shark-like eyes never changing even a little. "Old friends of Mr. Abrams are surely friends of mine," said he.

"Capital, simply capital!" cried Holmes, and he shook the young man's hand with aplomb.

Leaning in conspiratorially, he said, "I hear you're getting married to Mr. Abrams' daughter as well, Mr. Morrison, you lucky lad!"

Morrison smiled again, in a well-acted mix of embarrassment and glowing happiness.

"That's right, sir. Thank you very much," he said. 

"But it is time we get on with things, eh? I'm sure you've things to do, my boy! Mr. Abrams, my dear sir, I shall wire you the results later!" Holmes said, and he moved for the exit to the study with gusto. I, having not had the opportunity to say much at all, merely congratulated Mr. Morrison again and then left, following Holmes.

Mr. Abrams and Mr. Morrison watched us go, both looking quite bemused at Holmes' act.

"What an odd man," I heard the latter say; and then we were out of the house.

I caught up to Holmes just as he had called for a cab, and once we were comfortably seated inside he busied himself removing the little mustache from his face.

"Well, Holmes?" I said, "What have you learned from that short of an interview?"

Holmes chuckled. "I learned nothing new, Watson. I merely confirmed a few things about Mr. Morrison, such as that most likely not being his real name. In addition to that, and more importantly, I confirmed what I had suspected: he is not who he claims to be, not in the slightest."

"How so?" I asked.

"First, a quick look at his sleeves revealed not a single patch of ink. Quite unusual for a young clerk, wouldn't you say? And before you ask, Watson," he said, holding up a hand to forestall my interruption, "I specifically asked Mr. Abrams to make sure he wouldn't have much time to prepare himself before coming over to the house. But then I already suspected he was not truly a clerk.

When I went out yesterday, I went looking for more information on Merrill & Gordon's. I found its address quickly enough, and headed there immediately. Upon arriving I noticed at once, of course, that its nameplate was entirely new, suggesting that it was a recent acquisition and, therefore, presumably quite the new firm indeed.

The rest of the afternoon I spent sitting in a nearby café, and keep an eye for what sort of men entered its offices. I quickly noticed, Watson, that every man who entered the office was rather young, and quite a few were rugged-looking types. They were as much clerks as Morrison himself, I should think. I sat there until it was time for dinner, yet I saw not a single man who I could confidently state to be a clerk leave the building."

"But what, then, are you suggesting? That the entire office is a sham?" The thought seemed ludicrous to me, but clearly not to Holmes.

"Quite so, Watson. More specifically, I speculate that it is an office of so-called "screevers" or "cadgers", men who falsify testimonials for money. I suspect that Morrison is not a clerk, however, but merely a client. It would explain the lack of ink on his sleeve quite neatly."

A thought occurred to me, even as he was explaining this. "By the way, have you figured out how Morrison knew about Mr. Abrams' sudden winnings, Holmes?"

Holmes threw back his head and laughed. 

"I have not, for the very simple reason that he didn't know anything about it! Frankly, Watson," he said, still chuckling, "I rather think you focused on the wrong details of Mr. Abrams' account, as did he himself. I have often said that when all that is impossible is eliminated, then whatever remains must be the correct answer. If there is no way for Morrison to have learned about the winnings, then quite simply it becomes obvious that he did not learn about them at all.

"Rather more importantly, however, I have also concluded that Morrison is a serial bigamist," he said.

"Holmes!" I cried. "A serial bigamist? Surely you jest!"

"I do not, Watson. He wore no wedding ring upon his finger, yet there was a certain discoloration there which is extremely obvious to the trained eye. He has worn a wedding ring before, then. In fact, there are multiple discolorations on his finger, suggesting he has had multiple marriages. He seems a tad young to have had multiple widows, wouldn't you say?"

"But what could be the purpose of serial bigamy?" I asked. "Surely a man has trouble enough keeping one household in order!"

"It is your turn to joke, I see, Watson. Yet there are reasons enough for a man who is both sure of his own charm and in want of money to do so.

Suppose one day he comes home to his loving wife, and tells her he needs money for some purpose or another. Perhaps he owed some friends a bit of money over a wager, and they've come asking to repay them. Normal enough, wouldn't you say? So she acquiesces and lets him take a little money from the family ledger. From that point onwards, sadly, the misfortunes and the demands continue to pile up. His boss has made some clerical error, and the employees need to work together to fill the hole, as it were. Or they are putting together some money for an elderly clerk's retirement. 

It goes on and on, slowly bleeding the family's coffers dry until it becomes difficult to make ends meet. Of course, all the while, the money continues to disappear into a bank account she knows nothing about."

"But eventually his wife must realize that she is being duped?" I asked, aghast.

"I am not so sure of that, Watson. Love, as you know, can be quite blinding to the other's flaws. And even should he suspect that she is becoming wary of his excuses, or if he has bled her dry, then he can merely execute any number of gambits to escape the marriage. A trip to a foreign country from which he never returns, struck by some tropical disease, or maybe he might go so far as to spread news of his own death. And then," said Holmes gravely, "he searches for a new victim, and the cycle begins anew."

"Then we should have this blackguard arrested at once!"

"On what basis? All we have is a theory, suppositions and circumstantial evidence, Watson. A proper investigation would find nothing, no basis on which to convict Morrison."

"But then what do you suggest we do?" I sputtered.

"Well, Watson, I have long thought that a proper detective should use every tool at his disposal," he said, and from his pocket he procured that Tarot card which Igor had given him, and which was our route into the Locus.

By this time, however, we had arrived at the station, and we resumed our conversation only when we were sure we had privacy.

"But how shall we get into his Locus?" I asked, for we had not set any foot beyond the confines of Holmes' Locus as of yet.

"You see, Watson, I have been thinking on the matter of how we got into my Locus in the first place. My conjecture is that there are two necessary elements to finding a new Locus. First, that we have knowledge of its owner's identity, which should function as the 'address' for the Locus, and second, that we have some insight into how his mind is organized.

By the time of our original entry, of course, we had already associated my mind with the label of "attic", which should explain why it took that particular form. My theory is that, having these two elements, a route should naturally lay itself before us that we might go from my Locus to Morrison's."

"I should think it would be a deterrent that we don't know Morrison's real name, however."

"It could be," said Holmes, "but I suspect it is not such a hurdle. As Igor said, the Polis is a place where the sensation of travelling matters more than the distance between two Loci. In much the same way, I should think that what name one is called matters as much as a name one calls themselves."

"And what place is his mind associated with, Holmes? I cannot recall anything that would point to it."

"You shall soon see, Watson," said Holmes, and for the rest of the trip he engaged me in quite lively conversation on a number of topics which had nothing at all to do with marriage or the Polis. Resigned to his flair for the theatrical, I allowed him to do so.

Once we had arrived at 221B Baker Street, we prepared ourselves for the journey which lay ahead.

Now that I had been warned to the dangers which could lurk in the Polis, I took my trusted service revolver with me, and I saw Holmes take up both his pistol and his weighted riding-crop.

So armed, Holmes took his card in hand and murmured, softly, "Hanged Man", and we landed in his Locus without further incident.

Wasting no further time, we set out into that black void beyond Holmes' Locus, unsure as to what we would find our destination to be.


	5. The Lovers, Part 2

Whatever I had expected the Polis to look like when we stepped out from the confines of Holmes' mind, I had not expected the scene which lay before us, and probably the greatest reason for my surprise was its relative normalcy.

The street - for that was what greeted us outside - was small and lined with house after house, in all sorts of architectures; some were small, others towered above; some were garish, others dilapidated. I suspect the style of each house was a reflection of the Locus which lay inside, though I never went so far as to look inside.

I looked about me, in amazement; it was, frankly, a wonder I should see anything at all, as I saw no light source that should illuminate the scene. No sun shined in the sky - in fact, I should say there was a complete absence of celestial features whatsoever. Dark clouds concentrated above some houses to the point that I feared a storm might break loose at any time, yet their neighbours enjoyed a clear sky.

However, there was one feature that set it aside from any real street extremely clearly, and it was the lanterns on the sidewalk. I shall call them lanterns, for I do not know of a word which might describe them more accurately; and therefore it will have to do. Wherever a lantern hung, shadows spread about directly, as if instead of sending out light the lanterns absorbed it.

I shuddered, resolved not to contemplate the queer lanterns any further, and caught up to Holmes, who had marched onwards already and now stood somewhat further ahead, waiting impatiently.

"Hurry up, Watson," said he, "our time is limited."

We went along further down the street, until we had completely lost sight of Holmes' Locus, and yet we marched on. Holmes seemed like a gun dog scenting game, hunting something I could not fathom.

It appeared to me that as we went along, the houses changed, not in terms of height or necessarily appearance, but in how far they deviated from their neighbours. I saw houses which completely lacked a roof, houses which had balconies and multiple levels, and houses which were little more than a cave.

Worse, some of these houses were disappearing: some were eroding slowly, their foundations collapsing on themselves, no longer able to hold up the walls; some were sinking into the ground, capsizing like a foundering ship in the middle of the ocean; yet others were collapsing forwards, so that we had to hurry not to get hit by any debris.

Some five minutes later, Holmes paused before (what seemed to me) a random house. If there was anything to distinguish it from its neighbours, I should say that perhaps its roof was higher than average for this part of the street, and the front of the house quite gaudy: 

"Here we are, Watson," said Holmes. "This is Morrison's Locus."

"How are you so sure?" I asked; I could not see no plaque, nor anything else hinting at its identity.

Holmes gestured vaguely. "It is an instinct of mine," he said, then corrected himself: "No, I suppose it is rather Herne's instinct, to be specific."

I hesitated, then nodded. Our alter-egos are mysteries to me even now, when I am writing this; at the time, they were even more so, and as such I accepted this as merely being another oddity to keep in the back of my mind. I had already accepted that there were things Llud could do that Holmes could not, such as heal our physical bodies; the reverse was not so difficult to accept, especially where Holmes was concerned.

Without further ado, Holmes pushed at the door, which swung open invitingly. From the inside I immediately heard a blast of cheerful, loud music, the rhythm of which I immediately recognized as a rather strict, upbeat tempo.

I peered ahead, realizing that I knew what this place was without needing to set foot inside it at all.

"Holmes," I said, "this is a ballroom!"

"Quite so, Watson. You remember that Morrison met Mr. Abrams' daughter at a ballroom? I presumed that Morrison made the acquaintance of all his targets in these halls, and it seems my hypothesis has paid off."

Holmes set his hat straight, fixed his jacket, and said, "Come, Watson. Let us enter and see what Morrison has in store for us."

And so we did. Inside, we found a scene which was in some ways reminiscent of the dancing-halls I remembered from my youth, before I had completed my education as an army surgeon at Bart's and was sent to Afghanistan.

Its walls were covered in elegantly lacquered wooden blocks, which sloped into the roof as if they had grown that way. Its floor was made of a pure white marble. The room was quite spacious - I should have judged it to be some 50 feet wide, at least.

Near the opposite side to the door we had entered from, there was a raised dais, which should be meant for musicians but was now empty, though we could still hear the music, a strict-tempo waltz. Perhaps it, too, was a figment of our imagination, for we later discussed the music and found that it was in no way similar to what the other had heard.

Yet in the grandest ballroom I had ever had the fortune to lay my eyes upon, we found a crowd of merely five: four women dancing around a single man.

The man's appearance was extraordinarily bizarre. He was tall, at least a full eight feet. His skin was five different colors, mixing them together indiscriminately so it was impossible to tell which was his original skin color; splotches of red mixed with stripes of green, spots of blue overlapping with swathes of yellow, all occasionally interrupted by streaks of white. He was clad in a skin of some unidentifiable animal. His hair, wild and matted with sweat, was white.

Even from nearby the door, I could catch his scent, that of wine. I do not mean that he smelled like a drunkard, nor do I mean any specific wine; it was somehow a smell which suggested many kinds of alcoholic beverage, yet was not identifiable as any of them.

In addition, he had around each finger of his left hand a ring, to each of which was connected a very fine thread. These threads, then, led directly to the young women which surrounded him, blind adoration and complete ecstasy clear on their faces, and were woven around their necks, so that a small twitch of his finger should send them jerking about the room and interrupt their dance.

The women were clad in ruined dresses, which thankfully preserved their modesty. Their skin was grey and their eyes dull, as if their entire bodies had been carved out of living stone. Their movements, to me, seemed entirely random, devoid of reason or grace, though I should also say they seemed reverential.

The scene was enough to give even Holmes, standing next to me, significant pause.

"Holmes", I shouted so I could be heard over the music, "what the devil is that?"

"The guardian of the Locus," he shouted back. "This must be how Morrison sees himself."

Revulsion rippled through me. "This is how he sees himself?"

"He might not be cognizant of it, and this may be an exaggeration; in any case, I should think that his control over these poor women has been made literal here."

The whole scene tugged at my memories, and I struggled to recall what it reminded me of.

"Dionysus," I shouted in a sudden rush of realization. "That must be Dionysus. Holmes, this must be a Bacchanalia!"

Holmes looked at me in confusion. I have often said that his knowledge was lacking in those areas which did not directly relate to his profession; ancient Greek mythology, which I had learned as a school boy, was apparently one of those - not that he did not soon undertake efforts to correct his ignorance.

At the mention of its name, Dionysus twitched, and its face turned from that expression of divine ecstasy to confusion.

"Who are you?" it demanded. "You are not sacrifices to my glory. What are you doing here?"

"No, we are not," said Holmes. "We merely wish to inspect your followers, sir, so that we can be properly amazed at your glory."

Dionysus smiled in a bemused manner, like an addled man, or perhaps a child.

"Yes," it said, then shook its head in apparent pain.

It peered at Holmes, and I felt my stomach tighten in prescient anticipation, quietly putting a hand on my service pistol - a Webley's No. 2, comforting in its reassuring weight.

"Pentheus?" it shouted, and the heavy feeling of dread which had come to me was borne out.

"To arms, Watson!" Holmes shouted unnecessarily, and we fell into place side by side. I called, and Llud appeared behind me, flooding my nerves with a glorious icy chill.

However, before we could attack, Dionysus screeched. Its unholy howl sounded like nothing I had ever heard, disrupting the still-playing music and breaking our concentration. I stumbled, futilely clapping my hands around my ears to make it stop.

When it finally ended, I was still disoriented, but Holmes recovered faster than me. 

"Garu!" he shouted, and Dionysus was surrounded by a miniature storm, which tore at his body and dealt some decent amount of damage.

One of the women staggered and stopped dancing for a few seconds, and then with visible effort picked herself up to start her fevered movements once more, though this time slower. Another tear appeared in her dress, as if a knife had ripped through it without purpose. At the same time, Dionysus' wounds began to close over with visible speed; the image, though wholly unnatural, was not dissimilar to my own healing spells.

Dionysus uttered another strange cry, and in its queer squealing voice it cried, "Mine! They're all mine! I can do whatever I want, because they're mine!".

I saw a light spread from one of his ringed fingers, channeled through the thread which looped around a woman's neck; then, incredibly, a bolt of lightning was tossed at Holmes, who I had to tackle out of the way. Even so, a current passed through our bodies, and I saw Holmes shudder much harder than I, more susceptible to the electric attack due to the elemental affinities of our alter-egos.

"Holmes, he's doing something to those women!" I cried, as I helped the both of us up. With a mattered "Dia", Holmes stopped shuddering, the aftereffects of the electric current dissipating.

Sufficiently recovered, Holmes nodded, his forehead creasing. I knew he was deep in thought, and resolving myself to buy some time for him to find some weakness we might exploit, I threw myself forward, crossing the dance floor.

I pulled my service pistol from my pocket; slowly and deliberately taking aim, I fired a bullet at Dionysus, aiming for his chest. I was careful to not hit any of the women, some feelings of gentlemanly conduct hindering me from viewing them to be mere constructs of the mind, and not human as such.

However, I had never been much of a marksman, and the injury I had gotten at Maiwand had not helped. The bullet missed Dionysus' chest entirely and struck him in his waving arm, and he flinched.

Just in time, I realized what was about to happen, and I shouted, "Cover your ears, Holmes!" before doing so myself.

It helped, though only so much, the strange cry leaving me feeling as if someone was trying to scramble my brains through my ears.

Holmes charged forward, his hands still clasped over his ears after my warning, and Herne struck a dreadful blow to Dionysus' chest while it was chanting that queer cry, striking it in its solar plexus.

The cry cut off immediately, Dionysus having to gasp for the air that had been driven out of its lungs, and Holmes shouted, "Now, Watson! Aim for its hand!"

This is what I had been hoping for, and Llud's voice mixed with mine in a resounding war cry of our own. A stroke of its spear pushed away one of the women, and another cleaved the hand with all its rings from Dionysus' arm, leaving only a stump. 

I, myself, was shocked at this brutal scene; I had merely wanted to cut at the threads with which Dionysus had made himself master of these women. Perhaps I was more agitated than I realized, or perhaps Llud expressing some brutal savagery hidden within me. In perfect honesty I am not sure it was not both.

The women, who had stopped dancing when their master had been struck, were freed from his domination. Suddenly, they awakened from their divine ecstasy, and shrilly cried in one voice; then, as if this what they had been waiting for since they had been caught in their madness by Dionysus, they all attacked their erstwhile god with all their might.

Feet were launched in brutal kicks, hands balled into clenched fists, and to my utter surprise I saw a young woman who quite resembled Mr. Abrams even stomp Dionysus in the groin. Her dress was still mostly whole, the tears still able to be patched out. I resolved not to stand in her way, and thought of that old adage, which I dimly recalled came from a play by Congreve:

[i]"Heav'n has no rage, like love to hatred turn'd, Nor hell a fury, like a woman scorn'd."[/i]

Holmes and I joined in with the women, dealing what damage we could while remaining out of the women's way, ensuring that Dionysus stayed down. Luckily for my conscience, the guardian bled not blood but a strange blue ectoplasm, which sizzled as it hit the floor of the ballroom. It uttered shriek upon shriek of pain as it was violently abused but, somehow, these shrieks lacked in occultic power and hence could not harm us.

With a final kick from Ms. Abrams, there was nothing left of Dionysus' fighting spirit, and it laid upon the floor, clutching at its stump and curled upon itself. The women remained standing around him, and had lost both their divine leadership and their furious anger at their master; they seemed lost, confused, and pitiable.

We attempted to interrogate Dionysus, but it was entirely unresponsive; it could not be roused from his piteous state.

"What now, Holmes?" I asked, huffing in exertion.

"We must find out who these women are, Watson," said he; and he inspected the women, who I only now noticed had hung around their necks plaques which featured their names and a number, which I suspect was the amount of money he had defrauded them.

I chanced a look at one of the plaques, and immediately looked away again; I could not conceive of the sheer cruelty required to take that amount of money from one who has earnestly promised to share with you their life in marriage. I had loved my wife dearly, and if Fate had offered me death in her stead I am not sure I would be alive today.

Any pity I might have felt for Dionysus evaporated in that instant, and I looked at it, considering if perhaps it would be wisest to end its menace for once and for all, but Holmes noticed and stopped me.

"Kill it and the Locus goes with it, I think," he said quietly. "I share your disgust, Watson, but we are no court of justice, no arbiter given the power to decide over life and death. I will not have a murder on your conscience, old friend. Let us memorize these names and be on our way."

He looked at the women in turn, and though he had no pen and paper in hand I knew him well enough to know he had no need of them, his formidable memory enough to commit them forever.

But before we left, Holmes suddenly turned around once, as if noticing something he had previously not been able to observe. He bowed to the floor, and picked up the hand which Llud had severed, the rings clinking as the hand moved. The women twitched and shuttered as the threads - which we had been unable to severe - swayed with the motion, though thankfully neither the women or the threads did not move after that.

He plucked at the back of the hand, dropped the amputated limb onto the ground again, and held something up under the light. I was about to make a remark on his callous disregard for the human body - even if it was constructed of ectoplasm, not flesh and blood - before he held up a hand to forestall my remonstrations.

"What is it, Holmes?" I said; I could not see what he was holding clearly.

"It seems to be some sort of thorn, though not of any plant I recognize," Holmes said, his full attentions focused upon this object.

He took a magnifying glass from his pocket and looked at it carefully, turning it this way and that. Finally, he handed his glass to me.

"You see these spikes, Watson?" he asked. "I believe that they grew out of the thorn after it had been planted into Dionysus. In addition, you can tell that they are meant to maximize the pain of attempting to remove it, rather than making itself necessarily harder to remove, by the way the spikes have extended outwards."

"It grew after being planted?" I asked, focusing on what seemed the most pertinent problem. "It sounds like some sort of parasite, almost."

"In a way, I rather suspect it was," said Holmes grimly. "It fed upon his - let us call it ectoplasm, that substance guardians have instead of blood - his ectoplasm, and thereby grew. The process should be excruciating, and would explain Dionysus' behavior to some degree."

"You mean it was the root cause of his evil nature?" I asked, anxious. 

"I cannot say. Perhaps he was once a good man, and it is this thorn which made him a monster. Perhaps this thorn is the natural result of being a monster. Perhaps the truth is stranger still. We cannot know, Watson; should we have met Morrison before the thorn, only then would we have some inkling."

But he continued: "And yet, Watson, I feel no regret at the thought of Morrison facing justice. If, with the thorn removed, he should recover his virtue and become penitent, then he will surely welcome the punishment our court system metes out; if he does not, then he is quite a vile criminal and deserves the punishment with which he is stricken. In either case, therefore, we are acting in a just manner."

"But what is this horrible thing, Holmes? You make it sound like something unnatural."

"I don't know as of yet, and you are well aware of my distaste for guessing. I can only hypothesize that it is a clue to the matter Igor asked us to investigate."

He stood, placing the thorn into a small envelope which he carefully sealed.

"Let us leave this place, Watson. We have spent enough time here, I should hope."

And so we left leaving the ballroom and its music far behind us; we had no desire to remain there any longer, not to look at its sobbing master nor its dispirited dancers.

We set off down that queer street, and through Holmes' assistance found ourselves in front of that peculiar attic once more.

I could not say what distinguished it from its neighbours, but somehow I felt a sense of familiarity with it. I resolved to memorize that sensation, figuring I should be able to make my way back here in times of need.

"Coming, Watson?" said Holmes, and he stepped back inside, to be greeted by those neatly-arrayed piles of books and the relics which were stored atop them.

With a murmured "Hanged Man", we found ourselves back in 221B, Baker Street.

I shall, at this point, abrogate the narrative, as the events which followed were too spread about in time to make them worth telling in proper scenes, instead of this short summary.

With the list of names we now had in our possession, Holmes went out from our lodgings that same afternoon to find the addresses where these poor women lived. Once he had collected them, he wrote a letter in which he detailed the case against the man they each presumed to be their husband - naming several, quite specific details about his appearance to reassure them of his honesty - and bade them to gather at our lodgings, where together they would form the proof Holmes needed to definitively indict Morrison of bigamy.

Of the four women we wrote, three answered in the affirmative, and we hence received that proof which we needed; I have no idea whether the last woman, whose name I have dutifully censored like those of the others, ever received the letter or what she did with it if she had. I admit that my innate romanticism hopes that she, unlike the others who had become impoverished spinsters, had found a new love to cherish and did not wish to reopen old wounds.

In any case, with this proof in hand, we notified Lestrade, and Morrison was arrested posthaste. As to whether he had felt the influence of us fighting inside his mind, I do not know; should he have said anything, then it was not passed from the police agents who came to arrest him to us.

From thereon out, the matter was out of our hands, and into those of the court system. He was sentenced to some years of penal labour as well as significant fines, most to be paid to the women in question and which eventually saw him put into a debtor's prison, where he remains to the day of writing. I do not suspect he will ever be released.


	6. The King of Wands

Some hours after the arrest of Morrison, I found myself in a familiar dream.

However, this time there was no process of being drawn slowly into the hansom from the fog outside; this time, I awoke in the Velvet Room, and was immediately startled to discover that I was no longer a mind within its confines.

I had a body. Which, although lacking in some minute physical sense, mimicked the one I had while awake in every other way.

Moreover, next to me sat Holmes, similarly embodied. I was relieved to see him there, though what exactly I was dreading I did not know.

Igor chuckled, drawing my attention. "Welcome once more to the Velvet Room, gentlemen."

He indicated the room around him, a gesture like that of a stage magician. I could see nothing different about it, though I was now able to look around.

I could see the walls, and even physically touch them; they were, however, quite cold to the touch, and I could not say from which material they had been made. The cushions which sat on our seats, too, were made of some unidentifiable material, but were nonetheless quite comfortable.

"It seems you have had some successes. How gratifying," he said, peering at me, then at Holmes with those wide, bloodshot eyes and that odd grin.

"You have been watching us?" asked Holmes sharply.

"Oh, no, mister Holmes. I can merely see that you have awakened to new possibilities."

"What do you mean?" Holmes said.

"Come now, mister Holmes. You have awakened your other selves, yes?"

"We have, but what exactly are they?" I asked, unable to stop myself.

Igor gestured at me.

"They are you, doctor Watson, and you are them. They embody your concept of 'self'."

"I don't understand."

"Allow me to put it this way, then. You are a physician, yes?"

"I am."

"You do not act the same to a patient as you do towards a friend."

"Well, yes, that's true," I said. "I would change my vocabulary and my way of speaking, for one thing."

"You, in your role as doctor, and you, in your role as friend, are merely ways you express your self. Facets, or perhaps masks you wear. Your alter ego, then, is no more than another of those facets, one meant to face hardship."

"But I can change my role, and therefore my mask," I pointed out.

"Quite so. And yet, can you change your approach to life, doctor Watson? Can you change the way you think, or the way you see the world?" said Igor.

I admitted I could not.

"Exactly. Only those who have yet to find their true path and who are extraordinarily malleable may change their mask - and therefore, their alter-ego - freely."

Igor regarded us seriously. "That has happened before, you know. We call them Wildcards. They were all great figures, though I regret to say they were not all forces for good."

"But why are these masks mythological figures?" said Holmes, jumping into the conversation.

Chuckling, Igor made another sweeping gesture. "Every mask has a purpose, mister Holmes. It is only fitting that they are given a name, and names are powerful things. By lending masks the names of legendary figures, we influence their growth and define their direction."

"So what does it mean that I summoned Herne the Hunter?"

"I am not the one who named your alter-ego, mister Holmes. Surely you would know better than I."

"These alter-egos, they are not the actual mythological figures?" I asked.

"Do you have the memories of Llud, doctor Watson?"

"I do not."

"Does that not answer your question, doctor? It is a reflection of your self, much like one might see in a mirror. A reflection does not possess an intellect of its own, nor does it do anything its original does not wish to do."

"And the Arcana?" Holmes probed. "Is there any meaning to them?"

"Of course, mister Holmes. Allow me to explain."

He motioned at us, and the cards he had given us flew from our pockets to float before us.

"First, the Strength Arcana, number 8. It is more than mere physical strength, you know. It is perseverance, courage, resolve, composure, and more. It is solid, reliable."

I felt a flash of pride at this description. What other adjectives could I wish to be described with?

"Furthermore," Igor continued, "it is acceptance. It is simple to have anger in your heart, but far more difficult to forgive."

He handed it back to me. "An excellent card, overall," he said, and I nodded with a smile.

"Second," he said, turning his attention to Holmes' card, "The Hanged Man, number 12.

It is a paradoxical card, mister Holmes. It signifies self-sacrifice for the sake of enlightenment, a process with which I think you are quite familiar. It is a card of careful consideration, but also of accepting the world as it is and letting go. You have, I think, already sacrificed; now you must consolidate your gains."

Holmes, clearly, was not as enthused as I by this reading of his card. And why should he be? Surely no man of Holmes' temperament would accept letting the world go about its business without interference.

"Third," said Igor, to my surprise as well as Holmes'. He drew the topmost card from the deck he had laid on the table, and it slid across the table under its power. However, unlike the cards he had drawn for us before, the card laid with its lettering towards Igor, not towards us.

"The Lovers, number 6. In this instance, however, it is Reversed. Instead of its standard meaning of love and the desire for harmony, it means the opposite. Its holder, it appears, was deeply afraid of commitment, and used love merely as a tool to obtain power."

Igor shook his head, and the card slid back - not into the deck, but on the other end of Igor's side of the table, where it was positioned as if forming a counterpart to the cards Igor had not yet shown.

"Are all of the cards that are not ours Reversed?" Holmes asked.

"That remains to be see, mister Holmes."

Igor gestured with his hand, and the cards he had given us floated slowly back into our waiting hands.

This done, Igor leaned back. "But I think there are other matters of interest, gentlemen. You have walked the streets of the Polis."

"We have," I admitted.

"Very good. It is, after all, the only way to catch our interloper," said Igor. "However, keep my warnings in mind. I cannot conceal you forever."

"You are concealing us?" asked Holmes. "How?"

"Every step you take, mister Holmes, sets off ripples. I have been hiding the bulk of these ripples, in order to help you take your first steps into the world of the Polis."

"Why would you hide our steps?" I asked.

"It would be unfortunate if you were found before you were ready to be confronted, doctor Watson. The consequences would be dire."

"The consequences for whom?" Holmes asked.

"That will be clear in time, mister Holmes."

Holmes dug at his pocket, then unearthed a sealed envelope.

"Do you recognize what this is, Igor?" he asked, and showed him the thorn we had discovered in Dionysus' hand.

"Ah," said Igor, and he peered at it intently. "A Fool's Shard."

"What is a Fool's Shard?" I asked.

Igor gestured at his deck of cards, which shuffled itself once more. He picked a card at seeming random and turned it around.

On its face was a figure, depicted as if on a journey, a knapsack slung over its shoulder. Its name, spelled out in the same fine lettering which decorated the cards Igor had given us, was The Fool. However, the card had cracks running through it, as if someone had attempted to tear it apart.

"The Fool," said Igor. "It is the only card to remain numberless, and therefore represents both nothing and everything. It is a card that represents change and possibility. The start of a new journey, as it were.

"In the course of a life, there comes at least one moment for everyone where they are at a crossroads. It does not matter how big the choice is, but it is a choice that will determine that individual's life from that moment forward.

The contract you signed is but one of those crossroads, on which you have already picked a direction."

"But surely," said Holmes, "this specific choice was somewhat coerced?"

Igor shook his head. "No choice is ever made knowing its full consequences, and most never contemplate the path they did not take, or the path that lead them to where they are. But it is a choice, all the same."

He waved his hand over the card, and the Fool's Shard which Holmes had shown Igor floated over as if bidden. Holmes and I watched, transfixed.

The Shard integrated itself into the card, slotting itself into place in one of the cracks. However, the card still remained cracked and broken.

"You see, gentlemen, this is the fault of the interloper. He was once the holder of the Fool Arcana, but he has shattered his card, turning it into a broken remnant of itself. The shards of the Fool are scattered, finding themselves with owners that abuse its potential for change, whether knowingly or not."

Holmes, however, stared fixedly at the card. "There is no way we can further inspect the shard?" he asked.

Igor shook his head. "There would be little point, mister Holmes. It can be anything. It is not made of one material, but of possibility itself."

"But why was it implanted so viciously into Dionysus?"

With that wide grin dimming somewhat, Igor said, "He was handed an opportunity to change, mister Holmes. It was not his by right, and furthermore he took it in a manner which was unacceptable."

"How can we be sure that we are not implanted with any such shards?" Holmes asked.

"You have no need to worry, mister Holmes. You have awakened to your Arcana, and it will serve as your faithful guide on the path you will take this year."

"Then can you tell us how many shards there are, and where we may find them?" asked Holmes.

"I cannot answer the first question. You will, however, encounter them again during the course of the year."

"How do you mean?"

"The shards are innately tied to the case, mister Holmes. Find every shard, and the answer to the case shall be apparent. In the same way, if you find the answer, then the shards as well will be at hand."

"But why are they so important?" I asked.

"They are, as I said, opportunities, doctor Watson. Gather enough of them, and you have the opportunity to change anything. Not just yourself, but everyone."

"Everyone?" I asked, dumbfounded.

"Yes. With every Fool's Shard gathered together, you could change the Polis itself to whatever shape you would wish it to take. In so doing, you would also shape the Loci, and restructure society altogether."

"But to what end?" Holmes muttered. "Monetary matters? Some social ideal?"

"Discovering that is, of course, your task, mister Holmes."

Igor clapped his hands. "Now then," he said, "our time grows short. Is there anything else you wish to know?"

With a glance at Holmes to make sure he had no burning questions, I asked something which had been a question on my mind for some time: "Who is driving this cab?"

Igor chuckled. "My attendant, miss Agatha."

He rapped at the window on the roof, and through that small window at the top we could suddenly see a face, peeking in.

"Hullo!" she who could only be Agatha said, from the driver's seat.

Agatha - last name unknown, like Igor - was a cheerful child of about ten years, with blonde hair and pale skin. Her eyes were yellow, like those I had seen on Holmes when awakened, and marked as as not being quite human in much the same way as I presumed Igor to be something else.

However, the color of her hair triggered some chord in my memories, and I stared dumbfounded at her, while I tried to put my thoughts in order.

I realized, after a minute, what it was: her hair was the exact same shade as that of my late wife.

Try though I might, I could not get the thought out of my mind.

While I was confused, however, Igor clapped his hands once more.

"We shall leave it at this for now, gentlemen. Dawn approaches, and you shall soon awaken."

"Wait!" I cried, but it was futile; we faded once more into that white light.

The next morning, I asked question after question of Holmes, but even he had no answers to the one thought in my mind that burned the fiercest: why the attendant should seem so similar to my late wife, and why Igor seemed to wish us not to meet in any detail.

Tormented by the question as I was, it was some time before I would get an answer; and, in its absence, I eventually relented.

However, I shall break off the narrative until late February, when we received another case.


	7. The Priestess, Part 1

It was late February that we were again confronted with a Locus in the course of an investigation.

Holmes had, in the meantime, not sat idle. He had been involved among others in the inquiry into the death of the French President, Félix Faure, who had - it had been said at the time - died under quite mysterious circumstances. However, Holmes had resolved quite quickly with his typical flair.

The details of that particular case can, however, be read in almost any newspaper, and moreover be found more readily still in any salacious publication; they are so sufficiently known and so typically Gallic, I should say, that they warrant no particular detailed relitigation in one of my accounts, as I do not think my view of the situation adds anything to the public's understanding of the matter.

In any case, I had just finished my rounds and called upon Holmes on a particularly fine day. A cool chill hung about the streets; the snow had gone, but the winter still lingered.

"You could not have come at a better time, Watson," said Holmes; I had entered slightly after someone else, a woman of some forty years in age.

Her posture was straight, and if I were to have put a ruler to her back I presumed to find that ruler itself to be lacking in straightness in comparison. Her expression was severe, with a face made for frowning; thin lines crossed her brow, notably not those one might receive from smiling overly much. Her clothing, like the rest of her, was austere and no-nonsense. 

This, I realized immediately, was a woman not to be trifled with.

"Miss Shelby," said Holmes to her, "this is Dr. Watson, a trusted friend of mine. Would you mind terribly to restart your account of the facts?"

"If you insist," she said, casting a glance at me; I felt, at once, transported some forty years back in time, a schoolboy who had come into class too late, ashamed.

"I am a governess, gentlemen. I have long been in the service of one particular family, the Templetons, living in Surrey. Their children were quite rambunctious, but I believe I have made a difference in their upbringing for the better."

A governess! That would explain a lot about her appearance and her demeanor, the poor woman.

"But lately there has been some issue with the Templetons, Miss Shelby?" asked Holmes, gently.

"Not quite, sir. They have always been, on the whole, very kind to me, and they still are. It is merely that Mrs. Templeton has taken rather ill."

"You see, Watson," said Holmes in an aside to me, "why it is an excellent time for you to arrive now?"

"I can see why you might wish to consult a doctor,"" I said, "but surely an illness is no need to consult a private detective?"

"Quite so, sir," said Miss Shelby primly, "But there are circumstances that I would like your advice on, nevertheless."

"You see," she continued, "I always had the habit of remaining with Mrs. Templeton for some time after the tutoring, so that we can discuss over tea how the children are doing and what measures might need to be taken. I do not mind saying, sirs, that over time she and I became quite good friends. It is rare, I know, for someone in my position, to make friends with the family to which we are guests, but that is what happened. As a result of our friendship and its relative rarity, I was quite distraught when she confided in me about her illness, and that she would go to stay in a clinic until she had recovered. I would not have liked to find employment elsewhere, but fortunately she was so kind as to keep me on."

"What illness, exactly, does Mrs. Templeton have?" I asked.

"Well, that's just it, doctor," she said. "I don't know, and Mrs. Templeton refuses to tell me! I have visited her in hospital, but every time when her illness comes up, she directs the conversation to other topics or falls abruptly silent. I have tried talking to her doctor, but he's a shifty one, and I cannot get him to confess what it is she suffers from."

"You must understand," said I, "that we doctors are bound by the strictest confidentiality. Why, otherwise no one would go to the doctor when some embarrassing matter comes up, even if it would be ruinous to their health! It would be a betrayal to bandy about someone's problems when they have been told to you in the strictest confidence, so much so that it would be grounds for dismissal as a physician altogether."

She glanced at me, seemingly not entirely convinced by this argument.

"But surely there is no need for shame among friends?" she argued. "I do not wish to be nosy, gentlemen, but something about this whole affair seems suspicious to me."

"Merely because she does not tell you what illness she has?" asked Holmes, leaning back in his chair and his eyes aimed at the ceiling.

"No, Mr. Holmes. Not merely because of that. 

Firstly, there is the physician she sees, a Dr. Atkinson. As I have said, I can't bring myself to trust him. He is a small man, his cheeks pinched and his hair disappearing. I am not a superstitious woman, gentlemen, but I could not look at his face and believe him to be morally upright. I am sorry, but that is how it is.

Second, there is the hospital itself - the St. Boniface Union Hospital, it is called. I have walked through it quite a few times by this point, and it seems oddly empty to me."

"You mean to say," said Holmes, focusing his eyes on Miss Shelby again, "that there are no other patients in this hospital?" His interest had, I knew, been awakened.

"There are others, Mr. Holmes, but they are rare, and quite quiet besides. Perhaps they are convalescing, or sound is in some way detrimental to their health. I honestly cannot say. I have only seen them through accidental glimpses through the door, you understand, and never walking about the facility or transported elsewhere."

"Interesting," said he, leaning forward like a gun dog scenting game.

"Would you mind telling me her symptoms, Miss Shelby?" I probed.

"She's constantly cold to the touch, doctor. She suffers from terrible pains in her chest, as well as horrible headaches. She's always tired and pale. Frankly, she hasn't been herself." Miss Shelby tutted. "Why, she's even been quite irritable whenever I came for a well-meant visit!"

"My word, that sounds rather terrible indeed," I said. "I can't quite place the disease based merely on those symptoms, however."

"You are not willing to make a guess, doctor?" she asked, eagerly.

I hesitated, certain I was on the verge of making a misstep both on medical and social grounds, should I make a wrong diagnosis.

"Not without meeting the patient myself," I said, "and even then, I am not sure that, if those are her only symptoms, I should be able to provide a single, definite answer."

She pursed her lips disapprovingly. It was clearly not the first time she had heard this, I should think.

After a second's thought, Holmes added: "Also, I should not think that there is any indication of any actual wrongdoing, Miss Shelby, let alone a crime."

Miss Shelby wrung her hands. If I were to guess, she had encountered this same difficulty, and though she wanted us to intervene she could not find a socially acceptable reason for us to do so.

Holmes had noticed this just as I had, and he smiled encouragingly.

"But worry not, Miss Shelby. It is yet another reason Dr. Watson's presence is so invaluable. As he is a licensed physician, I am sure we can find some pretext for visiting Mrs. Templeton. Then we will see exactly what has been going on. Is that alright with you?"

"Yes, sir, that would be most gracious of you," she said, sagging in as much relief as her dignified carriage would allow her.

"Very well. Can you tell us the address of this hospital, madam?" Holmes asked. I have often said that he had a peculiar charm with women, though he was disinclined to use it for anything of a romantic nature.

"Of course, sir." She rattled off an address in Highgate, where the clinic was located, and then, having given all the information she could as well as the address where she could be contacted if necessary, she left.

As soon as she had left, Holmes jumped up from his chair and started pacing the room.

"Headaches, irritability, and pain in the chest," he muttered. "What are your thoughts, Watson?"

"Really now, Holmes, I just said that there was no real data to be drawn from merely listing her symptoms."

Holmes gestured impatiently. "But surely you have some initial thoughts?"

"Well," said I, reluctantly, "the list of diseases that that could be is enormous. And that is not mentioning the possibility of multiple diseases mingling and manifesting some symptoms which at first glance are entirely unrelated to either. I might conjecture the pain in her chest to be characteristic of some heart disease, but perhaps it is merely a symptom of something else."

I sighed. "Frankly, Holmes, at this stage it could be anything."

"Exactly," said Holmes, and what he meant by this or what he was referring to, I could not tell. 

"Do you have some thoughts on the matter, Holmes?" I asked.

But he had fallen into silence, a complicated look upon his face that suggested deep thought.

By this time, however, I had acquired some familiarity with this state of affairs, and quietly slipped away to enjoy a game of billiards with my old club-mate, Thurston. I did not return until late that evening, and if Holmes had gone anywhere in the meantime I did not know.

As expected, the next morning found us rattling along the streets of London in a hansom, heading to Highgate.

Holmes had, by this time, somewhat roused himself from his state of contemplation, and throughout the journey engaged me on a diverse number of topics, so that I was almost surprised when the cab pulled up to the clinic which we were to visit.

It was a large building, built of solid brown brick. Nothing of its architecture pointed to its nature as a hospital, and it might have been taken for a hotel if not for the plaque, which proudly proclaimed it to be the St. Boniface Union Infirmary.

Like its neighbours, it had a quiet and dignified air, befitting the higher social class of Londoner who lived in Highgate.

"I have one request before we enter, Watson," said Holmes, abruptly. "Do not mention you have had medical training, if you would be so kind. People are always inclined to tell more to those they suspect to know nothing, and we might catch Atkinson in a lie this way."

The receptionist inside of the building, a handsome but unassuming young man with a strong jaw, who I judged to be fresh out of school and who introduced himself as Charles Rawlins, eagerly invited us inside and accepted our excuse of being here on a visit before we would send a patient - Holmes' fictitious mother - here to convalesce.

He was obsequious to a fault, offering both Holmes and I tea and biscuits, and we dutifully partook in the sitting room, which was decked out in soft, cream colors, the better to comfort the patients and their families. Finally, we bade him to give us a tour of the facilities, a request he cheerfully granted.

"We're quite specialized in heart problems, I am proud to say," said he, leading us through the facilities. "However, that doesn't mean that patients with heart problems are the only ones we accept - no, no. We will, of course, take patients of any disease into our care, sirs. But what was it, exactly, that your mother had?"

Holmes, ignoring the question, bulled on. "What medical procedures are supported at this clinic, Mr. Rawlins?"

"I cannot tell you much about that, sir, at least not in any particular detail. I am not a licensed physician, after all, merely a receptionist. But you can rest assured that the quality of our treatments and our physicians is quite excellent indeed."

"I am sure they are, Mr. Rawlins. However, might we speak with a patient to ask them their opinion on the matter?" I asked.

"I don't mind, sir. However, please give me some time to make sure they agree to the interview as well. We wouldn't want to disturb them, you understand. "

"Do you have many patients at this time, Mr. Rawlins?" asked Holmes. "My mother is quite set on her privacy, you see."

"Oh, no, sir," said Rawlins, and when he realized that this could be interpreted to put his employers in a bad light, he hastened to add: "That is, of course, because most of our patients are on a temporary basis, not permanently. Here we are, gentlemen, the second floor, where most of the accommodations are located. Of course we have some rooms on the first floor too, if the stairs should prove to be a hurdle for the patient in question. We wouldn't want to overtax their hearts, you see."

The guided tour continued, and we set about inspecting a room which had been recently (according to Rawlins) been vacated. Holmes made a show of feeling the bed and looking about the room, paying some particular attention to the furniture. He nodded at me and made a motion with his head.

"May we inspect the bathrooms?" I asked, when it was clear Holmes was asking me to distract Rawlins in some way.

"Certainly, sir. Right this way."

When I had come back, Rawlins in tow, Holmes nodded to me again, a smile on his face. In the presence of Rawlins, of course, we could not discuss what he had found.

"May we speak to the head physician, Mr. Rawlins? A Dr. Atkinson, I believe."

"Yes, sir, you're right about that. I don't think the doctor is in today, however."

"I see. A pity. We will come back some other day, of course."

But reality proved Rawlins wrong: as we stepped outside of the room, we saw a man fitting the description Miss Shelby had given, pacing in the main corridor.

Dr. Atkinson was indeed a small man, advanced in age, though I should say she was quite wrong about his face and, I thought, his character. He was dressed like one might expect of any physician making his rounds; he wore a white lab-coat and a stethoscope was hanging from his neck.

"Good afternoon," said he, peering at us though his thick-rimmed glasses. "Who are you gentlemen?"

Holmes introduced us: he the concerned son of an elderly prospective patient, I a family friend of his. I studiously avoided mentioning my status as a physician, like Holmes had asked me to before we entered.

"Quite good to meet you, quite good," said Atkinson. His attention seemed to be elsewhere, but with some effort he pulled himself together.

"Well, gentlemen, is the facility to your liking?" he asked.

Holmes nodded encouragingly. "It is indeed excellent, doctor. I do have some minor questions, however. Might we talk in your office?"

"Yes, yes. Come along, gentlemen," Atkinson said, and we as a group moved to the first floor, where Holmes, Atkinson and I bundled ourselves into the doctor's small office, and Rawlins excused himself, going back to his desk.

"First of all, doctor, we only had the chance to see a single one room. Are all the rooms arranged the same way?" Holmes began.

"They are. Every room is roughly the same size and has the same furniture. Of course," he added, "we are quite willing to make adjustments for those patients who need them, or have a particular want they wish to see fulfilled, in return for a small fee."

"I see your office is similar to the rooms given to patients, doctor."

"Well, yes. My office might, if we are fully booked, become another room, though I don't quite see how that's relevant."

"I also saw that there were locks on the patients' doors?" Holmes asked.

"Ah, that. Not to worry, gentlemen. We don't have violent patients, nor do we accept those with, er, mental deviancies that would make them so." He puffed up his chest. "We take only respectable patients."

Yes, I thought, wincing internally, surely the fees involved in going to a clinic in Highgate would see to that.

"Then why the locks?" asked Holmes. "Certainly the patients should not have anything to worry about."

"It is not truly for their own safety, gentlemen," he said in a soothing manner. "We did not have them initially, but many patients protested at their lack of privacy. We acquiesced, as you can see, but we keep a master key. Does that reassure you?"

"It does, doctor," said Holmes, and he leaned back in his chair.

"How long have you been working with this clinic, doctor?" I asked.

"I began in May of 1894, if I recall correctly. I suppose that it was some five years ago."

"Might we ask what you were doing before this?"

"I taught at Oxford, although really, I don't quite see what that has to do with anything."

"You are specialized in heart disease, I have heard?" asked Holmes, interrupting him.

"I have some expertise in that area, yes."

"Even if they should happen to be lethal?"

"Well, yes." He peered at us through his thick glasses. "May I go so far as to presume that your mother suffering from a lethal heart disease, sir?"

"I cannot say," confessed Holmes, his eyes downcast and his expression gloomy. "She refuses to tell me; I merely know of her symptoms, which are quite worrying."

"Ah," said Atkinson, understanding flooding through his expression; repeating Mrs. Templeton's queer behavior to him obviously had some effect on him, though what exactly it meant I could not say at the time. 

He mastered himself a moment later, and said, "Well, well. You know how it is, I'm afraid. I'm sure she means the best," he said to Holmes.

"I do hope so," said Holmes, feigning anxiety. "But you are sure you can help her here?"

"I am sure that I can, at the very least, alleviate her woes," said Dr. Atkinson. The innate ambiguity of this statement was not lost on me; I somewhat sympathized, since I had in the past had to tell patients there was no means of recovery available to them, merely that they could look to spending what time they had in comfort.

Holmes did his very best to look relieved. "Thank you, doctor," he said. "I was beginning to worry..."

Doctor Atkinson was about to say something meant to further reassure Holmes when a knock came at the door.

"Time for your next appointment, doctor," said the nurse who entered. She was tall and handsome, but her general air was quite brusque. I could imagine how, when Atkinson was wrapped up in some matter or another, she had often had to extricate him from himself.

"Yes, yes, of course, Miss Baker," said Atkinson, and after he shook our hands again we were gently shooed out of his office, which was then duly locked, before he headed out with the nurse in tow, her fussing over some small detail or another and him listening attentively.

We were left out in the hallway, alone. I meant to say something to Holmes, but he held up his hand to keep me from saying, presumably fearing I might, in some way, hint at our true identities.

He motioned for me to wait outside, then disappeared up the stairs on some errand.

I merely needed to wait some few minutes before Holmes reappeared from the doorway, his expression not quite as cheerful as I had hoped.

"What did you find, Holmes?" I asked.

"Very little, Watson," said he. "All the doors to the patients' rooms except the one we visited were locked. Quite securely, at that. It is a shame I did not take my set of lock-picks with me, else I might have forced my way in."

"Holmes!" I cried, for I saw no need to resort to breaking and entering just yet.

"Shush, Watson. Something is very wrong with that clinic. I should quite like to talk to the other patients, but I was not able to locate them. I attempted to look through the keyhole, but the rooms are so arranged that I wasn't able to see anything of particular interest."

"But Miss Shelby said she saw other patients," I pointed out.

"Yes, but Miss Shelby has the advantage of having a valid reason to come and go as she pleases, as often as she wants. We could come again, but sooner or later the question will be asked why my sick mother cannot come to these lodgings with us."

"Surely that is not such an insurmountable hurdle?" I asked.

"It is indeed not such a problem, but it is one which with I would prefer not to deal if necessary. Furthermore, as you know, I dislike relying on dumb chance to progress in the investigation. Attempting over and over to have a chance of seeing a patient would be a highly inefficient use of our time.

"In any case, I was not able to find enough evidence from the single room we were shown, sadly. I can, however, say that this case has taken on quite some points of interest for me, and I dare say for you as well."

But, leaving no time for me to contemplate what he meant, he moved onwards, calling us a cab and telling the driver to take us back to Baker Street.

"Grab your pistol when we arrive, Watson," he said, stepping into the hansom. "We will make for the other side as soon as we are there."

"But Holmes," I said, bewildered, "what exactly is going on?"

Holmes, however, had lapsed into a silence that lasted until we had gathered ourselves and set off on the streets of the Polis.


	8. The Priestess, Part 2

We headed out into that queer street, where the lanterns bled shadows onto the pavement and no house was like another. The sky above our heads was, as always, empty; we saw no sun, nor a moon and stars by which to guide ourselves.

Holmes, at least, seemed to have some way of telling which route to take, and where to stop; I, personally, had become completely lost after only a minute of taking twisting, endless turns, then marching further down streets which looked nearly identical to the ones we had left behind us.

Soon enough, however, we stopped before a house which was impressively large. Differing from its neighbours in both size and construction, it was a large building made from brown brick, and with a sharp intake of breath I realized that it was almost a reproduction of that hospital we had just come from.

"Yes, Watson," said Holmes. "This is Atkinson's Locus, I'm sure of it."

He headed towards the front gate and made to push it open, meeting with no resistance.

Holmes beckoned, and casting one final look at the Polis behind us, we entered Atkinson's Locus.

It was perhaps a sign of my naivety and inexperience that I had thought that because the exterior was an exact twin to that which existed in reality, the interior would be the same as well.

However, my eyes were not met with a receptionist's desk and a sitting room, decked out in comforting, creamy colors. Instead, I saw what was unmistakably a prison. 

"Holmes, how did you know Atkinson's Locus was like this?" I asked.

"The rooms were all locked, Watson. My hypothesis was that the locks should play some important role to both the case and the mind of its perpetrators. What places have, in your experience, locked rooms and similar furniture, not to mention people confined to small rooms? A prison was the most likely answer."

"Could you not have told me before we set off?" I asked, somewhat ruffled. "It would do you no harm to confide in me our destination, at least."

Holmes gave me a embarrassed look in response. "I am sorry, Watson," he said. "I shall endeavor to inform you in the future, whenever we are heading to a specific Locus."

Glancing about, to my left I saw a figure, sitting in a glass cage at a desk filled to the brim with paperwork, though I was unable to discern any of that figure's particular features. Somehow, it still managed to express boredom with its situation.

"Holmes, look!" I said. "There's the Guardian!"

But he shook his head. "Not quite, Watson. A guardian, perhaps," he said, "but not the Guardian." He put a particular emphasis on the final words.

The difference, however, was lost on me; I said as much to him, and he smiled.

"It is merely a problem of terminology, Watson. We named Mr. Morrison's Guardian that because it was the stalwart defender of his mind, built from a mythologized representation of his 'self' - much in the way, come to think of it, that our alter-egos are.

But while I can imagine there are myths and legends based around prisons - both literal and metaphorical - I presume that this figure, whose details are so vague and blurred, is not the Guardian itself. Herne cannot feel that same power we felt from Dionysus, in any case."

"Then what is it?" I asked.

"A minor guardian, perhaps. For lack of a better name, let us call it a shadow - it is hardly more than that, as you can so clearly see. I doubt it is wholly sentient, in any case."

"But what does it represent?" I insisted. "Nothing in a Locus exists without reason, Holmes, we know that much by now."

"I cannot say," said Holmes. "Perhaps we will find out soon enough, but in the meantime let us avoid trouble by evading its line of sight."

However, as we paced forward, the shadow's eyes - faded yellow, underneath its wide-brimmed hat - snapped at our general position, through the looking-glass, and I realized we had been made.

The shadow began to bubble and roil, its vaguely humanoid features receding into itself, and then produced a being so odd that it could not have come from mere imagination alone. 

It was perhaps best described as a perfect sphere, from which grew with terrifying rapidity a pair of blue lips; from those lips, in turn, dangled a gigantic tongue, monstrous not merely because of its size but also because the saliva which dripped from it and which sizzled as it hit the floor.

It had no eyes with which to see, but its tongue flickered, as if tasting the air like a snake would, and it turned towards us.

"By God! What the Hell is that?" I managed to get out.

"It doesn't matter," shouted Holmes. "We must deal with it, Watson, else there is no proceeding further into the Locus!"

Shaking off the throes of revulsion that had seized me, I took out my service weapon and, aiming carefully, shot at the creature.

However, the effect of the bullet was not as I had hoped. Instead of killing the disgusting thing, it merely inflicted a grazing, shallow wound on its side.

It screeched in agony with vocal chords that had no right to exist, and charged at us, rolling over the floor and using its tongue to push itself forward.

But before it could reach us, Holmes grasped at his card and, maintaining an admirable calm, whispered "Garu", the incantation to Herne's wind spell.

Storm winds shredded the shadow's body, dealing so much more damage than my bullet had done, and slammed it down into the floor.

I stood there agape, looking at the scene which, mere months ago, I should have dismissed as a bizarre fever dream; then, mastering myself, I leapt forward and commanded Llud to kill it.

Already damaged by both the bullet and Holmes' winds, it fell to a single stroke of Llud's spear.

Holmes glanced around us, then, straightening his back, he motioned to me to come closer.

"We have dealt with it, Watson, but I do not think it will be the last of its kind."

"Hold on, Holmes," I said. "We did not kill Dionysus for fear of damaging Morrison, but is there no problem with killing this creature?"

He shook his head. "I do not think so. It should be only a small part of the psyche. If we kill too many, then I suspect Atkinson might feel some effects; as is, I think it cannot be so important. Otherwise, it would not have been left as a guard for the entryway."

Thus, with my mind set somewhat at ease, we moved on into the prison proper.

It was as spartan a place as I had ever seen; I cannot say, however, that compared to other prisons which I have visited and thankfully never stayed in, it was all that more obviously cruel to its inmates.

Holmes and I slowly but surely explored the first floor of the prison. We had chanced upon some stairs in our exploration, but having decided to instead continue with the current floor until we had been satisfied there was nothing there.

And, indeed, there was nothing on the first floor. We saw some more shadows which stalked the prison, apparently taking the role of wardens, but we either avoided attracting their attention or dealt with them easily enough, even with them twisting into ever more nightmarish shapes.

I saw several more of those odd spheres with their grotesque mouths; I saw several tables, where the tablecloths grew faces that looked like theatrical masks; some others never had the opportunity to change before we jumped on them in an ambush and slew them.

However, for a prison, it was remarkable that we saw not a single inmate. We passed by cell after cell, each decorated with those typical amenities that represent the only luxuries a prisoner is allowed: a rackety bed, a toilet badly in need of a plumber, and the false hope of freedom as represented by a barred window.

I shiver, still, at the thought of being forced to remain in one of those cells; even more horrible still, I imagine, than real prisons, because there at least there are other inmates, which might provide at least someone to talk to and not die alone, forgotten by society at large.

"But this makes no sense, Holmes," I said. "Where are all the patients? He cannot be neglecting his duties as a healer to such a degree that they do not figure into his view of the world at all. It would be absurd."

Holmes shook his head. "I do not think the patients are fully absent from Atkinson's Locus," he said. "I do, however, suspect they have been transformed in some way, which could explain why we have not seen them as of yet."

"Transformed into what?" I asked, but Holmes had no answer for me. 

Having by this point explored the entirety of the first floor, we moved onwards to the second floor by using those stairs we had seen earlier.

As if we passed some invisible barrier, we could immediately hear cries of pain and distress coming from one of the cells and hurried onwards, not daring to delay any further.

As we marched through the badly-lit passage, we finally stumbled upon a prisoner.

Its whole body was wrapped in bandages, from the neck down to its toes, so that we could not see any part of its skin - or, perhaps, the bandages were all it had to serve as skin. It was clear that the prisoner was still bleeding from whatever wounds had been inflicted on it, for the bandages were all stained and in need of replacement. Its eyes were hidden from our view by another roll of bandages, and the rest of its skin that we could see was pale, as if the blood had been drained from its body entirely.

Its chapped, bloodless lips chanted a string of meaningless words, whispering some syllables that we could not understand without coming nearer, which we were loathe to do.

In one hand, he carried a long knife, into which runes were carved and which was drenched in ectoplasm, so much so that its entire hilt was deep blue. I assumed he carried it for self-defense, though against what he was attempting to defend himself after it had so mutilated him I had no idea.

However, the most horrifying thing was its lower half. Its crotch had been entirely torn away, showing that the prisoner had been savagely emasculated; where once its genital region would be, there was merely a ragged piece of flesh.

It took all of my fortitude not to vomit, used as I was to viscera and blood by my training as an army surgeon, and I saw, from the corner of my eyes, that even Holmes was turning pale at the ghastly sight.

"Watson," said he, quietly, "Look at the knife wounds."

With revulsion rising up from deep within me, I did so.

"My God," I said, "there must be at least five deep wounds. How is it still alive? Surely it should have died of blood loss!"

"That's not what I meant, Watson," said Holmes, having long since turned away from the prisoner. I knew the sight must have tormented him, yet we never spoke about it afterwards by some mutual understanding. "Look at how the knife must have been wielded to inflict the wounds."

He mimed as if having a knife, and stabbing it into some imaginary victim, then shook his head.

"The way the blade entered the wounds must mean it was wielded in an impossible fashion, were a second party to have done it."

"You mean-" I said, and stopped there, unable to stomach the thought.

"Yes. These wounds are entirely self-inflicted."

"Even the castration?"

"I suspect so, Watson. Whatever has been done to him, it must have had an immense impact on his psyche."

"This is how Atkinson sees himself?" I asked, the disgust clear upon my face. "A prisoner in his own mind, emasculated and near-dead, endlessly bleeding?"

"It seems so," said Holmes, grimly. "I feel the same resonance as I did with Dionysus."

I gestured at the pitiful creature stretched out on the floor. "But... this is monstrous. What kind of mind must a man have for his Guardian to look like this? What kind of cruelty can be inflicted upon a man that this is the result?"

"I do not know for certain as of yet, Watson. However, notice that you are no longer thinking of him as a criminal."

"It must be some innate sympathy in my heart," I admitted.

Holmes clapped me on the back. "And pray that you never lose it, doctor; sympathy for one's common man is in my experience often enough in short supply, that I should be loathe to lose so ready a source of it.

But you are right to feel it, in this case. I suspected already that Atkinson is not the one in charge of the conspiracy behind the clinic. This merely confirms it: he, too, must be a victim, caught up in someone else's clutches. I cannot see how he could be anything other than that."

"But then-" I started to say, only to be interrupted by another, disturbing noise which originated from deep within the prison complex.

It was a sharp rapping noise, like that of steel hitting steel, which was repeated in a staccato beat that sounded louder and louder.

"I might guess at your thoughts, Watson," said Holmes wryly. "Yes, if the Guardian is not a guard of the prison but instead the Prisoner, then surely some other figure must take the place of Chief Warden."

And it was that Warden, I assumed, which was coming closer.

Holmes, in a clear hurry, motioned at me to come closer, both to him and to the Prisoner.

With one hand, he was supporting the Prisoner's shoulder; with the other, he held his temple. Herne materialized behind him, its hand already reaching out to the Prisoner's shoulder - where, I suddenly saw, another Fool's Shard had burrowed into its body.

Herne pulled with all its might and with obvious exertion at the thorn-like shard, and finally managed to extract it. The Prisoner was blubbering all the while, crying and moaning deliriously in pain.

"One more," Holmes said in satisfaction.

But before I could respond, the Warden entered our line of sight.

She - for, unlike the other creatures we had encountered here, it was clearly meant to represent a woman - was plump, though not obese. Clothed as she was in a long and restrictive shawl which dragged over the floor and on which ectoplasm had splattered, there was something in her figure which suggested unbridled ferocity and savagery; there was a physicality to her, a certain wild strength.

The Warden, however, was not alone. She was accompanied by a band of sycophants, who were loudly playing ecstatic music and otherwise insane; also with her she had several wild lions, who snarled and spit at us, their leashes which tied them to her chariot as taut as they could be.

She was also, unlike Dionysus, obviously fully in control of her faculties. She entered the room, and at once her eyes flew to Holmes and I, standing together to the side.

It was at this point that we became aware that the tone of the Prisoner's pleading had changed. It no longer sounded dejected and tortured. Instead, I was horrified to find that its keening wails were replaced by high-pitched muttering, burbling and a wide grin, as if it was happy the Warden had arrived.

"Please," it pled. "Please, please, Great Mother, please."

But what it was pleading for, I was never to know; the Warden pointed a fat hand at us, and the reins of the lions she kept as pets snapped.

They rushed forward, their hides bubbling as the shadows we had encountered earlier did, and transforming themselves into ever more monstrous shapes; one abandoned its paws in this sudden evolution, only to replace them with a single, gigantic wheel, over which it placed its mouth and raced forwards on; the other gained a ball and chain, which somehow did not slow it down in the slightest, and its skin bled color until it was faded and grey.

"Holmes!" I shouted, only to find my friend had thought ahead of me once again.

"Magaru!" he cried, a strange variation on that wind-summoning spell, and to my great surprise everyone there except Holmes and I was torn at by a shrieking wind, tossing the lions back on what had once been their haunches and giving us a moment's respite.

But that moment was all too brief: the Warden registered only a small amount of discomfort, and then atop her chariot she charged forwards at Holmes, apparently having identified him as the greater threat.

She slammed into him and bowled him over completely; it was by some minor miracle that he evaded the wheels of the chariot crushing his body, but still he was thrown into the wall, where he sagged in pain.

I rushed to his side, ramming aside one of the lions as I passed it, and cast a healing spell. Some color returned to his face, and I could see the mottled bruise which was already starting to develop across his back and side start to fade somewhat.

"Watson," he whispered, winded though he was, "we must escape."

"Have you found some evidence to support our case?" I asked, urgently.

I helped him to a standing position; he clearly still felt the shock of the blow, but he had recovered his composure somewhat.

"I have, but we are no match for the Warden, let alone in these cramped confines. It seems we have no option but to regroup and reconsider our options."

However, that was to be easier said than done. The Warden's retinue had blocked the door, and while the Warden was currently occupied with soothing the Prisoner, we would immediately fall back into her attention as soon as she noticed us.

"We will make a run for the door, Watson," said Holmes, and he readied himself. "Cast your ice spell at the Warden at my signal, and let us hope we will make it outside."

"Now!" he suddenly cried, and Llud swung his spear in a complicated motion. Ice sprouted from the ground, catching one of the chariot's wheels and preventing it from moving.

Holmes and I, meanwhile, had rushed forward, running past the lions and the other followers who had only just begun to pick themselves up from the ground.

I could hear their wordless howls as we fled, screaming their rage and their pain, and most of all their fear of the punishment the Warden would inevitably inflict on them if we were not captured posthaste.

We ran for the stairs, and descended them as fast as we dared.

With no warning, Holmes desperately juked to his left; one of the lions, jumping from the top of the staircase, flashed past where his head had been and slammed into the wall, its mouth open in an unmistakable attempt to attack.

"Down, Watson!" he shouted, and just as I dove to the ground, the chain which the lion had clamped around its ankle surged past my head with furious speed, the ball on the other end driving a crater into the wall opposite me.

Holmes helped me up, and together we stumbled forwards.

Another shadow blocked our path: one of the Warden's followers, a wiry man-shaped thing which cradled a flute in its hand and which was cackling.

With a wordless war-cry, I and Llud charged forwards, bisecting it in a single hammer blow of Llud's spear; its two halves, falling apart, slumped to the ground, and dissolved back into that shapeless shadow.

However, when we had finally arrived at the entrance, we saw that the shadow which manned the doorway had regenerated, and was now accompanied by others.

We skidded to a halt, then Holmes pulled at my elbow, directing me to a side entrance. Bursting through the door with our new pursuers hot on our heels, we came upon an oddly tranquil garden, which we had no time to admire.

But even as we ran through the field, Holmes looked oddly focused on our surroundings, and he pointed at a door located in the garden wall.

I charged at the door, seeing it as our only ways of escape. It buckled after I hit it solidly with a kick, all of my force behind it; Llud striking it with his spear destroyed it entirely, and then we were free, finding ourselves in the Polis' blessedly quiet streets.

Panting, I looked behind me; Llud stood at the ready behind me, preparing a blast of ice for anything that made it past that narrow garden door.

But nothing did; the shadows, having reached that door I had broken down, merely stood there, hissing menacingly as they saw us, but then losing interest again; it was like they could only see us for a brief moment, then had our existence erased from what functioned as their memories as soon as they realized we had leapt across that thin border that separated Atkinson's Locus from the Polis.

Soon, they had all walked or ran off, and I heaved a final sigh of relief, dismissing Llud.

I turned to Holmes, but at that exact moment a wordless scream of anger and fury rent the air, originating from the prison we had only barely escaped, and goosebumps ran up my back.

"How did you know?" I asked, then clarified. "That they were going to stop at the edge of the Locus, I mean?"

"I was not certain, Watson, but I am sure that we could have eventually dealt with all of them here on the street, albeit with some difficulty. However, I conjectured that since they were creatures of a single man's Locus they could not go beyond its limits. I am glad to be proven right."

"So am I, Holmes," I said, with some attempt at humour, and I straightened my jacket. "Now will you tell me what this case is all about?"

But he shook his head. "Not yet, Watson. We may be out of the Warden's clutches, but I do not feel secure here in the slightest. Let us return home first, and there I shall tell you everything."

Once we had recovered our breath to some extent, we walked back to Holmes' Locus, where we gratefully transitioned back to London.


	9. The Priestess, Part 3

I sank gratefully back into my habitual chair at 221B, secure in the knowledge of our safety.

"So," I said to Holmes, "would you please explain what just happened?"

"Of course," he said, first walking over to the Persian slipper where he kept his tobacco, then lighting his pipe.

"I shall begin at the very beginning, Watson, which is with Miss Shelby's testimony. Immediately I detected that something seemed off about the clinic, and more specifically Mrs. Templeton's disease."

"You found out what the disease was when I, a doctor, could not?" I said, doubtfully.

Holmes laughed. "Yes, in a sense." He returned to sitting in his chair.

"That is to say, Watson, is that she was never ill at all."

I jolted, so astonished by this revelation that I very nearly spit out my tea.

"But if she had no disease at all, then her list of symptoms..."

He finished my sentence for me. "That list was entirely fictitious, yes. You remember my asking if you saw any common theme to her series of ills?" he asked.

"Why, yes. As I recall, she had pain in her chest, headaches, tiredness, and Mrs. Shelby considered her irritable."

"What I was driving at then - and am driving at now - is that each and every single item on that list might be easily faked."

He threw himself into his chair, then cramped and clutched dramatically at his chest, heaving with such intensity that I sprung from my chair in fright and made to go to him.

Just then, however, he recovered immediately and, laughing, reassured me that he was fine.

"It is merely acting, Watson," said he, still chuckling.

I blushed. "You could have warned me first," I said, though there was no heat in it.

"But let us return to the matter at hand," Holmes continued. "If, as I said, Mrs Templeton faked her list of symptoms, then that would also explain why she refuses to tell Miss Shelby what her illness is."

"Because then Miss Shelby might consult a doctor, who can then provide her with medication for her illness or require some other measure," I realized. "And then the charade would become harder to keep up."

"Quite," said Holmes. "You see how it fits neatly together?"

"But Holmes," I said, "Why would she pretend to be ill in the first place?"

"Because she is being blackmailed, Watson."

I gaped. "How in the world would you know that?"

"Why else would she go to a clinic and remain there even while not ill, Watson? You must realize as I did that staying at a clinic - especially one in such a well-populated, high-class neighbourhood as Highgate - is quite expensive."

"I don't quite see how the clinic is relevant, Holmes."

"It is simplicity itself - and therefore, I must admit that the scheme has some measure of elegance to it. Allow me to explain it like this. Let us say you are a target of the blackmailers, who have in some way found out a secret you would rather keep hidden, and then require money to keep your secret. Perhaps they demand regular sums to be sent to some address, and once the payments end the secret is exposed."

"That is normally how blackmailers operate, I should think," I said.

"Exactly. But there are some problems with this approach," said Holmes. "You see, the blackmailers have two hurdles they need to clear.

The first, that they need a way to make sure they can safely withdraw the money without anyone else cottoning on to their scheme. The second, that they must do so without anyone in the vicinity of the victim finding out. Perhaps the blackmailers require money to be sent in an envelope. But that is inefficient; it only allows small amounts of money to be sent, unless checks are used, which comes with its own problems. What they need, instead, is a regular excuse to draw money from their victims without the family realizing."

"Ah!" I shouted, for the matter was clear to me now. "That's the reason behind the hospitalization!"

"You've hit the nail upon the head, Watson. It's an ingenious scheme. Not only is there a perfectly legitimate reason for the victim to become isolated and for the family's money to be paid to the blackmailers, but the family will even be thankful to the doctor for his tender care. It is a dark irony, to be sure.

Furthermore, it also has the benefit that immediately the victims must feign symptoms to explain their hospitalization, adding yet another lie to the deception. Because it is the victim's own lie in which they are caught, they will be ever more unwilling to expose themselves - in essence, they are made unwilling co-conspirators to their own blackmailing."

I stared at Holmes. "But how in the world did you deduce all that? What if Mrs. Templeton had been actually ill?"

The slightest tinge of satisfaction colored his voice. "The likelihood of that, Watson, seemed low. Furthermore, from our inspection of the room Rawlins allowed us to see, I realized that the other victims must have had similar experiences to Mrs. Templeton."

"I saw nothing of the sort," I said. "As a matter of fact, I recall momentarily doubting there were other patients in the clinic at all."

"You did indeed see, Watson, but you did not observe. The first clue I had was that the room was recently vacated. That was not obvious only from what Rawlins told us, but also from the general feel of the mattress. It was depressed in exactly those places where ordinarily anyone might be expected to lie when sleeping; furthermore, the curtains of its posters had been drawn recently, as evidenced by the lack of dust in them."

"So you realized there had been someone taking up residence in that room until recently," I responded.

"Exactly. That lead me into the second clue: the marks upon the floor, worn into them from endless pacing back and forth. I should further add that whoever this unfortunate was, she was short and quite heavily-set, as can be seen from the distance between the marks and the heavy imprint they have left."

"Holmes," said I, "now you're just showing off."

He merely chuckled. "Not entirely, Watson. It has some relevance with this case, for a woman who presumably has heart problems is not a woman inclined to find exercise, which I believe we can probably count said endless pacing to be among."

"Why, yes, that's true. Patients with heart problems are often advised to convalesce and to avoid anything even remotely strenuous."

"And, therefore, we can infer that the patient probably did not have a heart problem. Quite odd, wouldn't you say, for a patient to choose an expensive clinic which professes to specialize in cardiovascular medicine, when they have no such issue?"

"In addition," he said, "if there were ever some clue that the whole scheme could be exposed, the blackmailers could claim an operation of some sort was necessary, and if they played their hand right, in doing so remove their victim from the equation altogether in a tragic, but understandable, accident."

"But that's monstrous!" I exclaimed.

"It is, Watson. Never underestimate the depths to which man will sink. And that is not all."

"You learned something else from our visit?"

"Of course. You remember our interview with Atkinson?"

"I do," I said.

"Certainly you must recall that, having mentioned my fictitious mother's symptoms to him, Atkinson instantly realized what I was referring to? The inability to say which disease exactly she had, the fact of a possibly-lethal heart disease. He seemed intimately familiar with such a scenario, to say the least."

"Then he must be the blackmailer!" I cried.

"That is exactly wrong, Watson," Holmes responded, amusement clear from his expression. "In fact, it confirms that, though he is involved in the blackmailing conspiracy, he is not its chief leader."

"How so?" I said, staring at him.

"Simple, Watson. What sort of blackmailer would set up such an elegant scheme to extract money from his victims, and then completely forgot who his victims are?"

I could not make sense of this, and admitted as much.

"We presented ourselves as investigating the clinic as a possible repose for my sick mother. She is, of course, entirely fictitious, existing entirely within my own mind. Yet, when talking to us about her symptoms, he instantly realized that she must have been one of the blackmailing victims. Therefore, he is at least not the one recruiting new victims, because of my earlier question: what sort of incompetent would not recognize his own charges, after having spent time and effort on blackmailing them with their own secrets?"

"Then who is the true culprit?" I asked, baffled. "Rawlins?"

"It was the nurse, Watson."

I looked at him in amazement. "The nurse?" I echoed. "I can't quite recall her name. Mrs. Barker?"

"Close enough, Watson. She was Mrs. Baker. We only saw her for a brief moment, so it is not particularly surprising that you don't remember her particularly well; but in that short moment, she made quite an impression upon me, and I determined her to the culprit."

"But how?"

"I had heard, some time before she entered, that trademark scuffle of slippered feet against a carpeted floor; in so doing, she betrayed the fact that she was listening at the door. That alone might set off alarm bells, but then she intruded not long after I had broached the topic of conversation of my mother's illness."

"That's not entirely conclusive on its own, Holmes."

"Indeed. Which is, after all, why we went to Atkinson's Locus. I had hoped to find out more details about the case, and I dare say we succeeded at that beyond our wildest dreams."

"Truly? I had thought that perhaps our escape had meant some failure on our part," I said, sagging back into my chair in relief.

"We did not defeat the Prisoner or the Warden, that much is true," Holmes allowed. "But we took the Fool's Shard with us. In addition, the mere fact that the Warden existed, and was furthermore a very feminine figure, told me all I needed to know. Furthermore, the existence of the Prisoner was also quite illuminating."

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

"One thing nagged at me, even after I had determined the doctor to play some role in the conspiracy. Why would he participate?"

He puffed at his pipe, then blew out a ring of smoke.

"It is not merely enough that he should be - as Miss Shelby described him - a shifty character. I figured that for a doctor of such a disposition there would be easier ways to make money, which would also be less stressful. You do not know these ways, Watson," he said, "because you are of a forthright disposition, but suffice to say they exist."

"So then why did he do it?" I asked, perturbed.

"Because he, in turn, was also being blackmailed."

"You mean he is both a culprit and a victim?" I cried.

But the more I turned the thought about, the more I realized that it made sense. 

First, there was indeed the motive which Holmes had brought up. I did not think that Atkinson was the sort of man to be moved by financial considerations - or, at least, that if he was, it would have been reflected on his Locus.

Second, there was the Prisoner, that queer figure that we had seen sitting and wailing in a cell constructed from its own mind. I recalled how it had torn at its own body, inflicting injuries upon itself. I had thought at first that it was some form of punishment, but could it instead be self-castigation, some warped version of penance for a crime he thought himself to have committed?

Holmes went on. "I dare not speculate at what hold Mrs. Baker has over Dr. Atkinson, Watson. But let us assume that it is something which looms over him like the Sword of Damocles, always hanging at his neck, ready to make its fatal cut."

"Allow me to sum up the case, Holmes. The nurse has some hold over the doctor, and together they blackmail victims into going to the doctor's clinic. There, they receive no treatment but are instead induced to pay for their own blackmail. Is that correct?"

"Exactly, Watson. You've put it rather neatly, I must say."

"But some things remain unclear to me. First, what role does Rawlins play in all this?"

"Ah, Rawlins. His involvement is rather minor, I'm afraid, even if he does play a role."

"What role is that?"

"He plays the receptionist, ready to ward off anyone who does not fit the descriptions his sister gives him."

"His sister?" I cried out.

"His sister, yes. Perhaps his niece, although that seems rather more unlikely. He is, in any case, related to Mrs. Baker." Holmes indicated the chin, pushing at it a bit with his hands to approximate the chin of Rawlins. Then he did the same, but this time approximating the chin of Mrs. Baker. At once, I realized the similarities.

I was completely flabbergasted and regarded Holmes in silence.

"Based on the form of his chin, combined with some minor details of hair color and the similarity of the skull in general, I concluded that Rawlins was a relative of Mrs. Baker."

"But go on, Watson," he prompted. "You had another problem?"

"Yes, well, that is: Why was the Warden so much more powerful than Dionysus?" I asked.

Holmes stroked his chin. "To that, I can only offer a hypothesis. You recall, of course, that Morrison chained those women to himself in his Locus, but by the same token he chained himself to them. The links which bound him to them were a weak spot, both in the real world and in the Locus. After all, if anyone discovered his true identity, then his whole scheme would immediately collapse.

But, on the other hand, we did not fight the Guardian of Atkinson's Locus, the Prisoner. We fought the Warden and its sycophants instead. I presume that Baker had such an impact on Atkinson that she seemed invincible to his mind, wholly without weakness. Therefore, I think, the Locus made it so, and the Warden grew in power over the Prisoner."

"Then why was the Prisoner so keen to see the Warden?" I asked.

"That I do not know, Watson," Holmes said. "I can only presume it is a result of their own relationship, the details of which we are not privy to."

"I see," I said. "Then, my third question: where did Baker or Atkinson get the blackmail material from?"

"He is a doctor and she a nurse, Watson," Holmes reminded me. "There is material enough, if one collates it well."

"They violated their oaths of confidentiality, you mean?"

"Exactly," Holmes said. "It is, while probably the least criminal of their offenses, by the same token the most socially deplorable."

"But - but there is no evidence of any of this," I said, my mind whirring.

"None as of yet, Watson. We will need to employ some other measures, therefore, if we wish to see Baker and Atkinson brought to justice."

He stood up from his chair, walked to his room, and returned a minute later with a leather case.

With care, he opened it, and took from it a box, which he opened with a key; within lay a set of lockpicks, and I knew immediately what his next step would be.

"I insist you bring me along, Holmes," I said, my voice full of conviction. "You're not breaking into the hospital alone."

"I would not have it any other way, Watson," he said, smiling, and clapped me on the shoulder.

That night found Holmes and I in an alley located near St. Boniface Union Infirmary, dressed in simple, dark clothing.

With him, Holmes carried his set of lockpicks and some other miscellanea; I, meanwhile, had taken with me a lantern and my gun.

When all the lights in the building had gone out and we judged enough time had passed - which is easy enough to describe, but felt agonizing to wait through - we entered the hospital as stealthily as we were able. Luckily, we had recently gained some experience in sneaking about with the Loci; otherwise, I think we should not have such success as we had.

We were not spotted as we made our way through the empty hospital. By the light of the lantern I carried, we navigated our way towards Atkinson's small office, where we stopped.

"Cast some light on this area here, please," Holmes requested, and I did so.

It was, as always, a pleasure to see Holmes work, even if it was deplorably illegal in this circumstance. Not for the first time I wondered what if he had chosen the opposite of his current path - a life of crime, instead of a life of justice.

Before I lost myself in such thoughts, however, I heard the soft clink of the door opening as if under its own power, the lock having been picked successfully.

We entered the office, and I set the lantern down on the desk securely; then, with our ears listening attentively for the sound of approaching footsteps, we searched the office for any sort of incriminating evidence.

Holmes found it, in the end, stashed securely within a locked drawer of Atkinson's desk: a journal in which the details of the blackmail were written. It seemed to me to be extraordinarily good fortune that Baker or Atkinson should have written down the details of their crimes so neatly, but I suppose it made sense: they should not want to ever face the risk of confusing the secrets of one target for another.

With the journal in hand, we tiptoed outside, taking care not to leave any evidence of our passing behind, taking the lantern with us and carefully locking the office door once more. I winced at the sound of the lock clicking into place as the door closed, but we made our way outside without further incident.

Then, just as I took the step which separated the hospital from the street and passed by the plaque, a light suddenly came on in one of the rooms. 

I held my breath, fearing what would happen if we were spotted here, clearly having crime on our minds and its tools in our hands.

But the light, just as my worst fears were running through my mind, clicked off once more, and I saw no more lights appear nor any alarm being sounded.

"Don't worry, Watson," whispered Holmes. "That was a patient's room, if I am not mistaken."

I let loose a huge sigh of relief, and looked at our prize.

"I'll bring this to Lestrade personally, Watson," Holmes promised. "You go home and rest."

I nodded, the excitement having taken its toll by this point and leaving me feeling cold and tired; and that was the last I heard of the matter, or of St. Boniface's Union Infirmary.

No related news did, in the end, appear in any newspaper of which I am aware; it was from Holmes that I received some closure.

Atkinson and Baker were arrested the very next morning. Rawlins, the receptionist, had apparently seen the police standing outside the hospital and fled, but was caught attempting to board a train to Ireland. 

The patients were also freed from their confinement. There were, at that moment, three people caught up in the scheme: Mrs. Templeton, and two others who I shall not name. Ironically, Mrs. Templeton had indeed caught an illness during her stay in the clinic, so that she no longer had to feign tiredness and headaches - although, at the very least, she was somewhat freed from her financial woes.

As to why the case was not publicized, it was, I presume, judged to be too destructive to the country's trust in its medical system.

Already, many doctors felt we had reached a historical tipping point. With Koch's discovery of the existence of germs, so widely debated, and with Sir Lister's discovery of that theory's practical applications to the treatment of patients, the medical system was, and is, moving away from obvious causes of disease and, instead, moving to small creatures that could not be seen with the naked eye.

Was it any wonder, then, that the people clung stubbornly to their old theories of miasmas and humours? I suppose not; it might be a great deal more comforting to think that what made us ill should be clearly visible, and all the methods of treating it simple, even knowing it is untrue. People do, whether deliberately or not, have a way of only hearing that which confirms those beliefs they already hold.

Trust in the medical system was at an all time low, therefore, and in the interest of allowing doctors to perform their duties unchallenged the case remained out of the public's eye.

In any case, the matter was dutifully censored by Holmes and, presumably, Lestrade. I shall do the same, and thereby bring an end to this case.


	10. The Emperor, Part 1

It was, I think, sometime around the middle of March. Spring had, however informally, come upon us yet again; I delighted in seeing the green around London, which seemed somehow more vibrant than my memories of last year.

I was, however, not outdoors at the moment; I had just recently returned to 221B Baker Street after finishing my rounds.

As I hung my coat on the rack and entered the room, passing by Billy, the boy in buttons, I saw that Holmes was intently reading through a telegram.

"It seems we're in luck, Watson," Holmes said cheerfully. "Another client has announced himself to be coming at five o'clock."

"May I see the telegram?" I asked.

"Of course," Holmes said, and he handed it over.

It read:

"WOULD LIKE TO CONSULT WITH YOU STOP POLICE NOT TO BE INVOLVED STOP SHALL ARRIVE AT 5."

"Police not to be involved?" I asked, that part of the message standing out at once.

"Yes, quite," Holmes chuckled. "It does not necessarily mean the case will be interesting as you are presuming, Watson, but it is a good sign nonetheless."

A quarter of an hour later, at 5 o'clock, the client dutifully showed himself as promised.

He was a tall man and broad in the shoulders, but something in his face was rather haggard, his clothing ill-fitting, and his shoulders were hunched. I did not have Holmes' ability of observation and deduction, but I would bet that this man was impoverished.

The client looked about 45 years of age, but already had a streak of grey in his hair; stress, clearly, had been a constant factor in his life.

"Sit down, sir," Holmes said, indicating the clients' usual chair. "May we offer you a brandy, perhaps?"

"Thank you, mister Holmes, that would be most welcome," the client said, and he sank down into the chair with a groan of relief. His voice was low and cultured, quite different from his appearance.

Holmes stood up from his chair, walked to the liquor cabinet, and pulled from it a glass, into which he poured some liquor and handed it to our visitor.

With the brandy fortifying him, our client seemed somewhat revived.

"Now then, will you be so kind as to tell us what you require of us, sir?" Holmes asked.

"I will, mister Holmes; but first, I must be so incourteous as to inquire about your fees," the client asked.

"They are on a fixed scale," Holmes reassured him. "Should we not be able to provide a suitable solution, then we will of course reimburse you."

Our client nodded gracefully, and without further ado launched into his accounting of the facts.

"My name is Mr. Brown, gentlemen. I am, as you can probably see, not the richest of men, owing to my father racking up some truly enormous gambling debts that have continued to plague my family to this day. As a result, I have had to pawn certain family heirlooms when I was particularly hard up."

He looked pained at having to admit this, but he bravely soldiered on.

"Most recently, I have had to part with the most treasured of my family heirlooms, a beautiful ruby which has been in our possession for generations. I have, however, seen many of my friends badly fooled by treacherous pawnbrokers, and so I took a precaution. I made a small scratch on the ruby, so fine that it is invisible to the naked eye.

Well, recently, my fortunes have begun to turn. I shall not plague you with the details, but suffice to say I was able to buy back my heirloom from the pawnbroker that had taken possession of it."

"But the scratch was missing," Holmes said, pensive.

"Exactly, sir!" Mr. Brown cried. "Exactly! I knew at once that the ruby had been somehow replaced with another, inferior gemstone - if it is a gemstone at all and not mere glass. I have not been able to discover exactly what the new stone is made of, but I fear that unless I find the original once more I shall forever rest uneasy."

"And which pawnbroker have you sold it to, Mr. Brown?" Holmes asked, leaning forward.

"Mr. Lloyd, on Anerly Road."

"Ah, I dare say I know him. Small chap, elderly, with sideburns?"

"Just so, mister Holmes."

"Do you happen to have taken the new stone with you?" Holmes asked.

"I did, as it happens." He took from his pocket a package, which had been carefully wrapped in old newspapers; unwrapping it with deft hands, he uncovered a jeweler's box covered in blue and gold leather which he set on the table. He opened that little box and displayed the jewel.

And though I knew it to be fake, I was still, for a moment, fooled. The faux-ruby was heavy and old-fashioned, its form not as fine as a modern jeweler might cut it. It was far too big to ever grace a lady's finger, but it had a certain barbaric beauty. It was cherry red, and looking at it in the right light almost made it look like flames were dancing inside of it.

"Let's see," said Holmes, taking his loupe from his pocket. "Where did you put the scratch, sir?"

"Right about here, mister Holmes," Mr. Brown said, and indicated the bottom of the ruby.

"Indeed, there is no scratch there," Holmes said. "In fact, I should think that even without that, the ruby is fake."

"How so, Holmes?" I asked. "Some chemical factoid of its composition, perhaps?"

"Not entirely, Watson. There are several ways in which a fake ruby may be distinguished from the genuine article. First, there is the weight - which, of course, we cannot compare, seeing as we do not have the real article. Fake rubies will generally be lighter than real rubies. Second, there is the color: fake rubies are either too dull, too dark or too bright. I should think that this ruby is somewhat too bright, in fact."

"You are exactly right, sir," Mr. Brown said, admiration clear from his voice.

"Third, there is the hardness. Rubies are second only to true diamonds in hardness; no other material can inflict so much as a scratch on them. We might test this by attempting to scratch it with a lesser gemstone, but unfortunately I have no such items on hand."

"Neither do I," I said.

"And, finally," Holmes said, "there is another way to tell a fake ruby from a real one, Watson. It is, in all likelihood, probably the simplest."

"What method is that?" I asked.

Holmes chuckled. "The price, of course," he said, and he handed the ruby back to Mr. Brown.

"Very well; we will take on the case," Holmes said. "It is not every day we meet such a client as you, after all, Your Lordship."

Mr. Brown started, then drew a large breath, before looking at Holmes in shock. "How in blazes-" he began.

"It is a simple enough deduction, Your Lordship. First off, there is the request not to involve the police. I have remarked previously that if a client requests that the police not be involved it is usually some very personal matter, among which I believe this case can be counted. The poverty-stricken can rarely afford confidentiality, let alone presume it.

Second, there are your ill-fitting clothes. You are, I think, not used to the boots you are wearing; your gait is that of a man used to walking in good-quality, comfortable boots, not the ones of lesser quality you currently wear, which I should also think are somewhat too small for you. Obviously, you have borrowed them from someone else in an attempt to disguise yourself.

Third, there are the newspapers in which you wrapped the gemstone. The Times is a great amount of things, but it is not, I should think, a newspaper that attracts many paupers, except perhaps to sleep under."

"Yes, that is true," Mr. Brown admitted. "My boots are quite painful, to put it plainly, and I am an avid reader of the Times. But my noble status - however did you learn of that?"

"Why, I recognized the gemstone, of course. It is, after all, the gemstone for which your family was named, is it not, Lord Feverstone?"

"You have seen right through me," Lord Feverstone muttered, and he sank back into his chair with a groan.

"Worry not, my Lord; we will of course keep to the strictest confidentiality in your case."

"Thank you, mister Holmes," Lord Feverstone said. "I will be in your debt."

Some further details were discussed; then, with a final expression of his gratitude, Lord Feverstone left.

"We will head to that pawnbroker's, then, I suppose?" I said to Holmes, reaching for my coat.

Holmes chuckled. "Why, Watson, it's as if you've read my mind!"

Lloyd's pawnbrokerage was, all told, an unassuming shop. Around it were shops of higher repute, which had already closed for the day, but the light which shined from behind the display window of Lloyd's was still lit.

"You are sure you want me to do this?" I asked of Holmes, nervously.

"You will do excellently, Watson, I am sure," he said. "Unfortunately, the pawnbroker happens to be the very same from which I brought my Stradivarius. I doubt that he still recognizes me after these years, but I should not wish to make him suspicious, you see."

I tugged at my fake beard. "But still," I said, "You know I am no actor."

But Holmes was not to be budged. Were I a less charitable man I might have said that he enjoyed my discomfort.

"Very well, then," I said, mustering up my courage. "Here I go."

I stepped forward, crossed the street, and after taking a deep breath I opened the door to the shop, which set off a small bell somewhere.

The shop was empty of customers, but full of all sorts of antiques and curios. I spotted a beautiful necklace, which had been prominently displayed in its own little glass cage near the counter; in the corner of my eye I saw a chess set carved from wood; to the side of the store there was some space set aside where musical instruments were shown.

Some items looked as new as the day they had been made; others, like the chess set, had been marked by pawnbrokers many times already, so that little remained of its beauty. 

I could not look at the items without wondering at the stories behind their erstwhile owners: was that necklace, perhaps, a widow's, sold so she could feed her children? What story might the owners of those instruments tell? A dark mood fell on me as I considered those questions and more.

When I made my way to the counter, I could see the owner come out of the back of the shop.

He was as Holmes and Lord Feverstone had described him: a man at least in his late fifties, the sideburns on his face a clear white and his posture hunched.

"Good evening, sir," he said, smiling in a way that made my skin crawl. "How can I help you?"

"I want to sell something," I responded. From my pocket, I dug out the watch I had inherited from my late brother. I had bought myself another, as my sentiment would not allow me to use his as my own. It was still a fine piece, if somewhat old-fashioned by this time.

"My," Lloyd said. "What a fine watch, sir. Might I see it?"

I was loathe to hand it over, but I mastered my revulsion and did so anyway.

Lloyd inspected it, turning it around his hands and tutting at the scratches that had been made around the keyhole. He gazed hard at the dial, opened the back, examined the works, both with his naked eyes and a lens he took from his pocket.

Holmes had once, memorably, used this very same watch to conclude that my brother had fallen into drink, and had never recovered. Now, I hoped, that same evidence would be used to lead Lloyd to think I was a drunkard.

"Yes, a very fine piece indeed," he said, handing it back. "I will offer you a decent price, of course."

But he did not - he named a price so low that I did not even have to feign rage, as Holmes had told me to.

"Are you mad, man?" I cried. "This is an heirloom, sir! I'll not part with it for so outrageously low a price!"

Lloyd, however, remained calm. "I understand that, of course," he said. "But it is quite badly scratched, you see. I might try to hide these scratches and thereby raise the selling price, but that will cost some money too, after all. I feel the price I named to be entirely reasonable."

My fists clenched. One of the few keepsakes I had of my brother, and this blackguard wanted to buy it for a pittance? I stepped closer to the counter aggressively, knowing that as a result Lloyd would be able to smell the brandy Holmes had given me just a while earlier.

"Now see here - " I said, but Lloyd dove behind the counter and came up with a pistol, which he pointed at me.

It was a small thing - it could not compare to my own, nor would it be any good in any proper forest hunt, but its barrel looked me straight in the eye, and I was forced to step back. This had not been a part of Holmes' plan.

"Calm down, sir," Lloyd said, grinning evilly. "We wouldn't want any unpleasantness, do we? I might have to call the police, you see, and then where would you end up?"

The pistol was still aimed squarely at me, and I swallowed.

"Indeed,I don't want any trouble" I said, keeping my voice admirably level. 

I took a step back, my eyes still looking at the pistol, and nearly stumbled into a shelf.

The spell, with that, was broken, and I retreated from the shop with haste; I observed Lloyd through the window, as he kissed his pistol, cleaned it with a cloth he kept beneath the counter, and then put it away.

I crossed the street once more, returning to Holmes and tearing off the fake beard.

"Watson, are you alright?" Holmes asked, genuinely worried. "You're awfully pale."

"He had a pistol, Holmes," I said, and lapsed into shivering silence.

Holmes turned nearly as pale as I.

"If I had known, Watson, I should never have sent you in there," he said, regret coloring his voice. "I am sincerely sorry."

"So am I, Holmes," I said, sighing. "I was not able to see where he kept his most valuable stock. You said that, when threatened, his eyes would immediately fly to the place where he stashed those items that were of the greatest value to him, but he did no such thing. Or perhaps he did it too quickly for me to detect."

"And where did he grab the pistol from?" Holmes asked, thinking hard.

"From under the counter. And yet, I do not think that he has stashed the ruby there. Too little space," I said.

"A most formidable foe indeed," Holmes muttered. "There is only one solution, then, I suppose."

"The Locus?" I asked.

"Yes, I do believe so."

"But what sort of place will it be? You have not met the man for years. I, at least, would not be able to say immediately what his mind might look like."

"True. And yet there are certain clues which we might use," Holmes suggested.

"Such as?" I asked.

"For instance, there is the very fact that he is a pawnbroker. It suggests a certain sort of personality - one must know, intimately, the value of something at a glance, in order to put a price to it."

"But that might be anything," I said. "Perhaps it's a market?"

"I doubt it, Watson. I know from personal experience that he is loath to sell anything, hence the exorbitant additional cost he tacks onto his items. It was only by realizing he did not know what treasure he had in his hands that I was able to buy my violin. In fact, it is that very same fact which leads me to believe he has not yet sold the ruby to someone else. He will carefully study the market first and find a jeweler to appraise its true value, a fact that we can use to our advantage.

"We also know that he seeks to put the items in his possession on display. Most pawnbrokers hide their wares and do not make such a macabre show of them," said Holmes.

"So," I said, summing up the little we knew, "it is both a place where things of high value are important, and where things are kept to be displayed for significant periods of time."

"It sounds like a museum might fit, Watson. Or perhaps an art gallery of some sort."

"Why, yes," I said, delighted. "Both of those would fit exactly. Let's head out, then."

"Very well," said Holmes, smiling. "But not right now, in any case. I insist that we wait until the morning, at the very least, so you have had time to recover."

And, flagging down the first hansom that passed by at so late an hour, we returned home.


	11. The Emperor, Part 2

The next morning, we set out to Holmes' Locus - our staging point for every excursion we made.

I stood by while Holmes was in deep concentration, holding a hand to his temple while Herne looked around itself as if searching the horizon for some distant scent. I suppose that it was fulfilling part of its duties as a hunter, in tracking our prey.

Herne winked out, disappearing back into the recesses of Holmes' mind, and I turned to Holmes.

"It seems my hypothesis was right, Watson," he said. "Lloyd's Locus is indeed a museum. Shall we be off?"

I nodded, and taking the door which materialized itself from the floor, we set off down that long lane of unique houses, where the lanterns threw shadows instead of light.

After some five minutes of hard walking, we arrived before the specific house we sought.

It was, even to me, evident that this was Lloyd's Locus; it was almost an exact replica of his shop, though now the houses in the vicinity were even further dilapidated. I noticed that the paint to the walls they shared with Lloyd's Locus was especially flaky; presumably this meant that Lloyd was as malign an influence on his neighbours as he was on his clients.

I mentioned this to Holmes, of course, and he looked pensive.

"I am personally wondering why it is another copy of the real place, Watson. It was not so for Morrison, as you recall," he said.

"Is there something Lloyd and Atkinson have in common, then?" I asked; it would not do to find us confronted with another Warden, when we had had no success in defeating its ilk the previous time.

"Perhaps," Holmes said, thinking. "There might be a commonality between their personalities, or perhaps a commonality between the way their cases have unfolded. I cannot say without having seen it from the inside."

He bounded to the glass door and tried to look through it, but found he could not do so.

"You see this fog, Watson?" he asked. "Does it not remind you of anything?"

"Why, yes," I said. "It's almost like the fog through which the Velvet Room travels!"

"Exactly," said Holmes. "Let us ask Igor about it the next time he bids us welcome."

Without further ado, he pushed open the door to Lloyd's Locus, and we entered.

It was indeed a museum, though one so gaudy that I should never wish to set foot in it again; every single surface, from the walls to the floor, was decked out in resplendent gold.

However, the gold came off easily enough and showed itself to be a cheap reproduction. More symbolism, I supposed.

The museum consisted of a series of large halls, each centered around a particular series of exhibits. The one in which we had found ourselves had, in its middle, a long series of waist-high daises, on which were displayed a bizarre series of objects.

All these objects were encased in a bubble, like those children might play with. Inside the bubble, scenes played out as if from a series of photographs, displayed in rapid succession. I saw a child receiving a chess set from his beloved grandfather; I saw that same child, now a young man, fall into gambling debts; I saw that same child, now a man fully-grown, hand it over with shame written over his face to a gloating Lloyd.

I looked around me, and saw more and more of these photo-bubbles, each on its own pillar. A boy, learning how to play the trumpet for the very first time; a beautiful heirloom, as it was handed over by a stone-faced attorney next to a sick-bed; a wedding ring, taken off for the first and the final time.

Sickened but curious despite myself, I stumbled to one of the pillars and saw, in elegant lettering, a plaque which read "Memories of Joseph Robinson. Bought on the 5th of April, 1896."

Holmes caught me before I could stumble back, steadying me with a hand on my back.

"Steady now, Watson," he said.

I corrected myself, brushed off his helping hand, and fixed my jacket.

"We must end this," I said. "I refuse to let this blackguard cause one more day's suffering."

Holmes smiled grimly. "We will end this, Watson."

His ears pricked up, however, and he dropped his voice to a whisper. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?" I asked.

"Something is screaming, Watson, as if in fear for its life. I believe that if we are to find Lloyd's Guardian, we must first find the source of those screams."

But before we could, we first stumbled across a shadow, which had been admiring one of the memories mounted atop a particularly gaudy pillar. It was still wearing the shape of a man, its uniform that of one of the museum's curators.

As it spotted us, however, it cried out. "This is mine!" it shouted, and it transformed.

The back of its body opened up, shadow flooding from its back to underneath its arms, forming wings. Its ill-defined, blurry face roiled and seethed, shrinking upon itself even as the rest of its body grew in size, and eventually sprouting a gigantic, sharp-looking beak.

"Get ready," I shouted to Holmes.

Holmes nodded, and Herne materialized behind him in a sudden outgrowth of verdant green.

"Garu," he shouted, and to my utter consternation the bird-creature drank down the shrieking winds Holmes had thrown at it as if it was water.

Holmes stumbled back, caught off guard. Fortunately, I had had the wherewithal to draw my pistol, and shot at the thing the moment Holmes had finished his spell.

It was sheer luck that my aim proved to be true, and that the shadow was absorbed with basking in the remnants of Holmes' magic; my bullet caught it straight between the eyes and rocketed through, smashing into the pillar the creature had so admired.

The creature shrieked, somehow still alive with its head perforated, and I was once more forcefully reminded that though these shadows looked like living creatures they were fundamentally different.

Then Herne rushed forward and buried its antlers in the beast's belly, killing it.

We stepped over its dissolving corpse and looked at it intently.

"Curious how it absorbed that spell, isn't it?" I mused. "I wonder how that came to be. Perhaps the shadows have affinities for specific elements, just as we do?"

"That may very well be the case, Watson," Holmes said. "I propose we get moving, however. Time marches on."

We moved on, walking into another hall, heading in the direction Holmes had heard the bellowing from. Yet I still heard nothing.

Two more shadows, however, awaited us in the next hall; this time, they did not transform into ravens, but instead became different creatures entirely. One of them shrank down upon itself, its limbs becoming the paws of a truly gargantuan dog; the other twisted and contorted itself, reforming into the shape of a gigantic serpent.

By silent agreement, Holmes and I split up; I would take the dog, he the snake.

However, the enemies showed no care for what we had planned, and the dog rushed towards Holmes even as he entangled himself in battle.

"Bufu!" I cried, and ice flooded through my veins at the same time as a blast of freezing cold crashed into the shadow. It squealed in obvious pain, but didn't stop in its tracks as I had hoped.

I shouted for Holmes to get out of the way, but he was locked in battle, and could not hear me.

My feet carried me forwards to stand in the charging beast's way, Llud's spear flashing into another complicated movement.

Just as the dog was about to snap its malformed snout at me, however, Llud finished its attack, and rammed the spear through its mouth.

With a whimper, the shadow died.

I looked to my side, to see Holmes struggling with his opponent, and I went to help.

"Bufu!" I commanded yet again, and the snake froze, no longer able to move.

Herne, entangled in its coils, gave a low growl and skewered the shadow's head with its antlers.

I helped Holmes up from where he had fallen on the floor.

"Thank you, Watson," he said. "It seems I have somewhat fallen out of practice with bartitsu, though I admittedly do not recall any lessons which focused on wrestling snakes."

"An oversight, to be sure," I said, and we both chuckled.

"However, Holmes, perhaps it is time we find some way of strengthening ourselves?" I said.

"Such as?" Holmes asked.

"Better weaponry might be a start," I suggested. "I could start carrying a close-combat weapon."

"We shall see, Watson. It would do neither of us good to buy more weaponry and become over-encumbered by it, of course."

We proceeded to the next hall, which was fortunately entirely free of shadows.

As we came closer to the source of what Holmes had heard, I too started to hear it.

It was a sound which, even from a distance, was incredibly loud; it was a wonder that I had not heard it earlier. It sounded like the braying of a dozen bulls, in the throes of some horrible pain beyond imagination. Furthermore, it sounded close.

Holmes and I shared a look, then charged ahead into the next hall, which was also the final one. No other halls led to it.

It was, if possible, even more opulent than the ones we had seen before. No longer did the gold flake off the walls whenever it was touched. A chandelier hung from the roof as if it had grown from it, seven lamps hanging atop it; it cast a sinister light on the entire room, so bright that I had to squint to see properly.

There was only a single dais in this hall, unlike the others. It was inlaid with gemstones: diamonds, rubies, and more, all adding to the room's extravagant show of extreme wealth.

The dais itself was not occupied by the bubbles that had been exhibited elsewhere. Instead, atop it stood what I assumed to be the Guardian.

It was a tall being, shaped like a man but with the head of a lion. Its mane was wild, shaggy, and matted with blood, extending past its head to serve as its hair. It stood exactly underneath the chandelier, and I could only presume it was somehow feeding off the light that shone on it, because it was purring in leonine delight. It was wholly nude, though it thankfully lacked sexual organs.

In its hands, it carried a butcher's knife, from which trailed a fine golden chain that led to the lion-man's wrist.

In addition, a white bull was trapped atop the dais, its hooves bolted securely with golden chains so that it could not escape. It was this bull that we had heard cry out for a savior; the Guardian, we could see, had been torturing it by making a series of thin, cruel cuts along its back.

"My God, Holmes, it's torturing that beast," I said; for that reason alone, I shall from this point call Lloyd's Guardian the Butcher.

"It is, Watson. And if I am not wrong, that is exactly what we do not want it to do," said Holmes, forced to squint his eyes exactly like I was.

At that moment, however, the Butcher noticed us and spread its arms wide in a grotesque mockery of a greeting.

"Welcome, gentlemen!" it shouted gleefully, somehow producing words from the lion's mouth. "Are you here to witness this glorious sacrifice?"

Holmes stepped forwards. "Release the bull, Butcher!" he shouted. "We are here to take it back!"

"Holmes!" I hissed. "Don't set it off!"

But it was too late; the Butcher had frozen upon hearing Holmes' words, and its expression changed.

"You will not steal the sacred offering to my glory!" it cried, hate clear even from those animalistic eyes, and it waved one of its hands at us.

And then, incredibly, the chandelier that hung above its head tilted towards us.

The light it emitted intensified to the point where it had become so thick it felt almost like a physical thing, pushing us backwards. I shielded my eyes from the light and gritted my teeth against the sheer heat contained within its glare.

I was blinded as a result, and therefore was unable to do anything when the Butcher threw its knife directly at me, turning wheels in the air; its blunt end slammed into my solar plexus, driving the breath from my lungs and sending me falling to the floor.

"Watson!" Holmes cried, though if he knew what had happened to me I did not know.

Left alone under the brutal rays of that demonic chandelier, Holmes took the only course he could. He sprinted backwards, his back to the light in order to retain a modicum of sight, desperately searching for something behind which we might hide.

However, there was nothing at all in the hall that could cover one man, let alone two.

It was a perfect ambush, and our only chance to eke out a desperate victory was to somehow change the circumstances in which we had become trapped.

Right at that very moment, however, I had gotten my breath back. As the chandelier was occupied in slowly turning itself with a slow shriek of bending metal, its golden highlights rung like bells, and an idea struck me.

I stayed low on the floor, hoping against hope that the Butcher would not see me and be so occupied with Holmes that I might take a desperate gamble.

Luckily, my pistol had not fallen far, and I had soon found it. I shut my eyes tight, took a deep breath, and turned to where I felt the light to be at its brightest and hottest. That would be where the chandelier was, after all.

I lifted myself from the floor, and shouted some war-cry that I should be ashamed to put in writing.

No matter how crude, it worked; the chandelier turned back to me, and I felt its burning light focus once more entirely on me.

My pistol was securely in my hands, and risking it all on a gamble with my life in the balance I hefted my gun up and squeezed the trigger.

For a moment, I heard nothing and felt only the kickback as the gun fired, and it was if everything hung silently, unable to move. Then time started again, and I heard a shattering sound as one of the lights on the chandelier went out forever.

The Butcher screamed in wild fury, and I squeezed off one more shot, but had less luck this time; the bullet slammed into the chandelier itself without hitting a lamp, rocking it from side to side but doing little actual damage.

However, my gamble had worked as well as I might have hoped. With the lights somewhat diminished, we now stood a far better chance at taking the fight back to the Butcher.

I fumbled with my pistol, all but blind; it was Holmes who tackled me to the ground as the Butcher's knife shot by where my head had just been, as this time I would not be so lucky as to meet its blunt end again.

"Well done, Watson," Holmes said as we disentangled ourselves and faced the Butcher once more. It had retrieved its knife, pulling on the thread to yank the knife back to itself.

"We must sever the thread," I said to Holmes, but he shook his head.

"There are more pressing matters, Watson," he said urgently. "Look at the white bull."

I did, and saw that it had gained several more slashes, from which a steady trickle of golden blood now flowed. The Butcher cried in obvious delight, lowered its head, and lapped at the bull's wounds.

This was more than the bull could apparently bear; its cries, which had weakened to endless whimpering, immediately grew back to a cacophonous bellow of pain and distress.

Worse, the light of the remaining lamps grew brighter, as if the chandelier was somehow compensating for the lamp it had lost by intensifying the glare of the others.

"The Butcher must be feeding on the bull somehow," I said. "We need to set it free!"

"I'll distract it again, Watson," Holmes said, already sprinting away. "You take care of the chandelier!"

The Butcher cried out as it saw Holmes come closer again, and started hauling its knife in again by pulling on its thread.

With another tortured shriek of metal being forced to twist in ways it was not meant to, the chandelier oriented itself towards Holmes. I saw him stumble as he was caught in the path of its glare, his shadow almost entirely eradicated by the magnitude of the chandelier's light.

Meanwhile, I took the little time Holmes' distraction gave me. I set my feet solidly at about the width of my shoulders, bent my knees, and recalled those lessons that had been drilled into me in the army.

I had two bullets left out of five; I would need to make them count.

I took a deep breath, aimed, and fired.

My first bullet missed the six remaining lamps, but struck the chandelier, rocking it like a ship in a storm. I heard Holmes give a small sigh of relief as the light that had held him in its burning grasp faded, and then I heard another roar of leonine fury from the Butcher.

By this point I had only a single bullet left, and I was ready to despair. To my amazement, however, I suddenly saw that the chandelier had not grown out of the ceiling as I had first thought; it had been hung from the roof by a hook, from which it was now on the brink of slipping loose.

Realizing what I must now do, I took aim one final time and fired at the chandelier at the apex of its swing.

It slipped off the hook entirely, and with a last groan of tortured metal it tore itself from the fine golden hinges that kept it bolted to the roof and fell.

The Butcher, still roaring at us, disappeared almost entirely underneath the mass of falling gold and the shining lamps.

I saw it thrust both of its hands up into the air, as if it was trying to catch the blasted thing - and then, I saw nothing. The impact of the chandelier hitting the ground all but knocked me off my feet, setting off a rattling that shook me to my very bones.

A full minute went by, though I remained unable to speak.

"My God," I finally said, and looked at the catastrophe before me. Silence reigned.

"Holmes, is it - " I asked. Had I inadvertently killed a man? The thought kept swirling about in my mind.

"Not yet, Watson," Holmes said, inspecting the scene closely. "But if we do not act soon, then your fear will be indeed realized."

"Of course," I said, and I walked closer to the mangled dais.

The chandelier had been shattered into an infinite amount of pieces. There was no part of its surface that was not splattered with some sort of ectoplasm, so that I briefly wondered if perhaps the chandelier itself had bled. Tall as it had been, I did not think the Butcher alone could contain that much blood.

Holmes cleared away some of the rubble, and there before my eyes I saw the once-proud Butcher, curled up over that white bull. It had been freed from its golden shackles, but was still unable to move; the Butcher clutched onto it to its last breath, even as both were bleeding profusely. The bull was not in danger of its facsimile of life being extinguished, but the Butcher was clearly on death's door.

"Dia!" I cast, and the Butcher slumped gratefully into unconsciousness, blood flowing back into its body as if time had been reversed. It regained some of its color, and while it was still comatose Holmes and I took the opportunity to cut free the Fool's Shard from its body.

With difficulty Holmes and I freed the poor bull from its confinement.

It regarded both of seriously, and in what seemed to me to be a fit of extraordinary silliness, Holmes spoke to it.

"Where are the valuables kept?" he asked, leaning over it.

I was caught wholly off guard when, in a clear but low voice, it answered: "In the back of the shop, the second box to the left."

"Thank you very much," Holmes said, and fixing his jacket he motioned for me to follow him.

I was still flabbergasted as we left the Locus, returned down the street, and came back to 221B.

"What time is it, Watson?" Holmes asked.

I looked at my brother's watch, which I still carried in my pocket from yesterday; it was about eleven o'clock.

"Time enough for us to send a telegram and then pay another visit to Lloyd's before lunch, I should think," said Holmes, satisfaction evident in his voice.

We took the first hansom that would take us, but we found the store closed.

"Surely he hasn't disappeared," I said in disbelief.

But Holmes knocked on the door of one of the neighbouring houses, who swiftly explained to us that Mr. Lloyd had had a heart attack that very morning and how he'd been taken to a local doctor. Then the door was shut politely but firmly in our noses.

"I get the sense that Mr. Lloyd's neighbours don't like him very much," I said to Holmes, as much to camouflage the feeling of disquiet that grew within me as anything else.

The police, under the leadership of Inspector Lestrade himself, arrived some minutes later.

"What's all this, then?" Lestrade said when he saw Holmes and I stand outside. He shook our hands.

"You're sure that this man is fencing stolen items, Holmes?" he asked.

"I am, Lestrade. He appears to have gone for the moment on a medical emergency, though," Holmes said smoothly. "Would you and your men be so kind as to open the store so that I may present the goods?"

"A doctor's visit right before the police arrived, eh?" Lestrade said, snorting. "I've heard that before."

But in that, at least, we had no reason to doubt: it turned out later that, when the chandelier had collapsed atop the Butcher, Lloyd had had a heart attack out of the blue. A frightened customer who had been in the store at that exact moment had gone out to get a doctor; if he had not done so, I doubted that Lloyd would have survived the day.

I wonder, sometimes, how much of Lloyd's survival had been up to me. Was I the one that made sure he could be saved, or was he already saved and was that merely reflected in the Locus, using me as a tool? I do not know, though I prefer to think it is the first option.

In any case, Lestrade's men soon unlocked the store, and Holmes found the stolen goods exactly where that queer white bull had said they were. In the box were stored item upon illicit item, including the original ruby.

Holmes made sure that the scratch was still there, and it was the original, to the relief of Lord Feverstone when we presented him both with the ruby and a certificate of its authenticity.

"I cannot repay you gentlemen, truly," he said. "You have done me a service money cannot buy."

"Think nothing of it, Your Lordship," Holmes said, but I knew the compliment pleased him greatly.

As to Lloyd, the police eventually arrested him at the office of the doctor he had been brought to; cursing and struggling, he was transferred to a prison hospital, where he spent the next two years.

His shop, in the meanwhile, had been bought by Lord Feverstone at our suggestion; I believe it is, to this day, a charitable institution for helping the poor. A more ironic, or more optimistic, ending to this case I could not have dreamt, and therefore I shall end the story of this case there.


	12. The Magician & The Moon, Part 1

Holmes and I were, I believe, in the middle of a discussion on one of his more minor cases over glasses of wine, when Billy, our boy in buttons, ran up and knocked.

"Police Inspector here to see you, sirs," he said. "It's Mr. Lestrade."

"Thank you, Billy," Holmes said. "Be so kind as to let him in, would you?"

Lestrade entered, though he looked different then he had before.

Normally, Lestrade was lean, almost ferret-like. I was used to seeing him looking sly and furtive, though always respectably dressed.

Now, however, I was startled to see he was even more gaunt, perhaps even ashen. He had on a comfortable-looking convoy coat, which had already done its duty in protecting him against the abominable weather outside, and which he handed off to Mrs. Hudson with a muttered thank you. In his hands, he carried a black canvas bag.

"Good evening, Lestrade," Holmes said. "Feel free to help yourself to a tumbler and one of our cigars."

Lestrade did so gratefully and sagged into a chair. He looked somewhat better, though his expression had, if anything, become even graver.

"You are not here on police business?" Holmes inquired.

It was a testament to his exhaustion that Lestrade could not even muster up the energy to demonstrate his surprise at Holmes' deduction.

"You are correct, of course, Holmes," Lestrade grumbled. "What gave me away?"

Holmes gestured expressively at the window. "The weather and some knowledge of you, Lestrade," he said.

"The weather outside is horrible, which of course you know. If it were a police matter you sought my help on, then surely you would have sent a telegram, or perhaps one of your subordinates to brave the rain for you. Yet you came in person. Hence my conclusion."

"Well, like that it seems perfectly logical, of course," Lestrade sighed.

"Are you well, Lestrade?" I asked. "You seem out of sorts, to put it mildly."

But he waved his hand. "It is about a personal matter, as Holmes said."

"But what on earth could make you this unwell?" I asked.

In response, he opened the canvas bag he had brought with him. He extracted a folder from it, and from that folder he took a newspaper clipping, which he handed to Holmes.

Holmes inspected it carefully, rereading it once or twice, humming all the while; then he passed it to me.

"ALDGATE ATROCITY", the title read; the contents, from that point onwards, only got more galvanized.

It detailed that this very morning, a body had been found in Aldgate. The body had, apparently, been savagely beaten, its head near-caved in. Who, exactly, the body was, no one seemed to know at the time of writing. The police were investigating at this very moment, the clipping promised, and there was every hope of finding answers soon.

"But there is no actual hope of such a solution?" I asked of Lestrade, who grimaced.

"Not at all, doctor. You see, we of the police have conspired to keep some of the more important details out of the press," he said.

"Those details being?" Holmes pressed.

Lestrade took a deep breath, and released it all in just as deep a sigh. "Firstly, that we do know whose body it was. It was a police informant, Holmes. And that's not all. He was found with a half-sovereign in his mouth. Don't need to tell you gentlemen what that means, do I?"

He did not, of course; it was common knowledge that a half-sovereign in the mouth meant that the dead man had been killed for being a slanderer.

"And it is for that reason that you came to us?" Holmes asked, thinking deeply.

"Exactly," Lestrade said. "I'm completely at your disposal for any questions you might have, gentlemen."

"First, some simple questions about the victim," said Holmes, sitting at the edge of his chair. "What was his name?"

"Charles Spencer," Lestrade said. "Twenty-five or thereabouts. Short-cropped, brown hair, blue eyes, strongly-built."

"Where was he found, precisely?"

"An alley in Aldgate, at roughly seven o'clock in the morning."

"Was that a place he would normally be?"

"Not at all. He did not live there, and neither were any of his usual haunts particularly close to the scene of the murder. To the full extent of my knowledge he had no reason nor inclination to be there."

"Very well," said Holmes. "Let us ignore the question of 'where', then, then, and move onto the reason as to 'how' the victim was murdered."

"I only know what's in the records, Holmes. That's not overly much, frankly. Because of the wound, we suspect that he was hit over the head from the back with some heavy object. We haven't found anything like that laying around, however. The victim died at 11 o'clock the previous night, according to the coroner."

"Are there any clues to who murdered him?" Holmes asked.

"We have some clues," Lestrade said. "We found that the tongue had been cut out, and the left eye was closed and the right open."

"Aha," said Holmes in recognition. "Yes, I'm familiar with that particular signature."

He stood up, walked to the bookshelf on which his reference books were placed, plucked one out among the many, and gave it to me.

"Check Tomas Giuliani for me, would you, Watson?"

I did, finding the entry easily enough.

Tomas Giuliani, it told me, was a known hitman, who'd done work for some of the most ruthless Italian crime syndicates known to the police. He was a Sicilian by birth and a killer by trade. He was wanted for at least five murders in Italy alone, and had left examples of his handiwork in almost every European state. He was incredibly prolific and diabolically hard to find.

Underneath the entry, mention was made of his trademarks: severing the tongue, closing the left eye, and opening the right.

A note was scrawled underneath, in Holmes' neat hand: "Left eye closed because of Sicilian folk belief in Evil Eye? Need more research."

"Yes, we thought of Giuliani immediately ourselves. We hadn't known he was in Britain, but we have an order for his arrest out already," Lestrade confirmed. "No luck yet, though."

"Then why are you so interested in this case, Lestrade?" I pressed. "The murderer has been identified, so I don't know why you should need our help."

"I can't tell you too much, gentlemen," he said, looking resigned. "Police regulations, you see. Despite the services you have rendered, you're still civilians by law."

"Come now, Lestrade," Holmes chided. "Do you want our help or not?"

"You swear this does not leave this room?" Lestrade said, looking about him wildly.

"We promise," said Holmes, and I followed his example.

Lestrade still looked reluctant, but launched into his story anyway.

"You've been following the cricket, gentlemen?" he asked, a seeming non-sequitur.

Holmes shook his head - I knew he had no interest in sports beyond those he himself practiced.

I, however, sat up straighter in my chair. 

"Why, yes," I began, some excitement creeping into my voice. "Did you see that ludicrous display last week? Why, it's as if Ashton-"

Holmes coughed politely. "A later time, perhaps, Watson?" he said.

I blushed and sank somewhat deeper into my seat. "Yes, I have been following the cricket," I said, subdued.

"I suppose that for Holmes' benefit, I'll explain that the Warwickshire County Cricket Club, one of the higher-ranked teams in England, has been having a long streak of bad luck as of late."

"Bad luck?" I said. "It's been downright horrible. They keep coming close to victory, but then fumble it in the very worst of ways. I've lost a pretty penny on that, frankly."

"Exactly," Lestrade said, looking rather grim. "That's what seems to be the case."

"Seems, you say?" Holmes asked. "Is there a suspicion of some wrong-doing?"

"Not at first, Holmes. But then a young man came to us, with a most incredible story of how a powerful group of men had conspired to decide how the matches would go."

"They engaged in match-fixing?" I asked, in horror.

"Yes, doctor. These men were, if the story's to be believed, fixing matches all across England and making some very appreciable sums of money."

"And that young man was Spencer?" Holmes asked.

"Correct," said Lestrade. "He was a clerk for one of the men involved and, as it happens, a cricketer himself - though never more than an amateur. He had overheard the conspirators talking about how they might arrange the latest match and make money off of it. As he told it, his sense of fair play immediately demanded he go to the police.

Of course, when he told me, I immediately took charge of the investigation. It is a very sensitive matter, and if any information were to be leaked the consequences might be severe."

"And you have concluded that information did indeed leak from Scotland Yard, which then found itself back to the men, who hired Giuliani to shut Spencer up?" said Holmes.

"Exactly, Holmes," Lestrade admitted. "I can think of no other reason that Spencer was murdered."

"But who could have leaked this information, Lestrade?" I asked. "Do you have any suspects?"

"I have told only a select few men. Galling though it is to admit it, one of them must be the one responsible for the leak."

"Might I have their names and descriptions, Lestrade?" Holmes asked.

"The first, gentlemen, is Constable Armstrong. He's in his thirties or thereabouts, but he's had quite the meteoric rise in the office. Despite what that might suggest to you, I've always found him a very solid chap."

"The same constable Armstrong who helped with the matter of the Giant Rat of Sumatra?" Holmes asked.

"The very same."

"I see," said Holmes noncommittally. "And the other?"

"Constable Wright, Holmes. I don't think you've ever worked with him, but he's about the polar opposite to Armstrong. He's what you might call an old campaigner. His experience is immense, but he's ruffled some of the higher-ups' feathers in the past, if you catch my drift."

"Thus explaining his lack of promotions," I said.

"And what about the constable who found the body?" Holmes asked, pensive.

Lestrade started. "Well, I don't think he has anything to do with the matter, frankly. He merely had the misfortune of stumbling into the whole thing entirely by accident."

"Very well, Lestrade," Holmes said. "At the very least I believe our long cooperation demands that I repay you all the favors you have lent me. We will take the case."

"Thank you, Holmes," Lestrade said, looking earnestly grateful.

"Would you be so kind as to arrange an interview with both men?" Holmes asked. "I will leave the place and time to you, of course."

Lestrade hesitated. "I might be able to get them to a pub and introduce you," he said. "But it'll need a deft hand, not to tip the leak off."

"I have my methods," Holmes said, smiling. "As you have yours."

"That's true enough," Lestrade said with a snort. "I'll see what I can do."

"Very well, then," said Holmes, clapping his hands. "Send us a telegram when you've arranged matters to your liking, please."

Recognizing his dismissal, Lestrade left.

Holmes had fallen deep into thought; and, knowing that he would best be left undisturbed in such a state, I picked up a book and set myself to reading while time passed.

The Royal Hart was a fine enough public house. The publican, a severe-looking man, served Holmes and I an excellent lamb dinner while we waited for Lestrade to arrive, as per his terse telegram. It was not, I should think, the sort of public house that the police should normally frequent, looking rather too expensive for an average constable's salary.

Eventually, Lestrade entered the public house with two other men in tow; I immediately matched their faces to the descriptions Lestrade had given, and knew them to be Constables Armstrong and Wright.

True to his name, Armstrong was a big man, steady and reliable. Like Holmes and I, he was dressed in more comfortable clothing than his work uniform; from our part, we hoped it would send a better signal than interrogating him in officious clothes would.

Wright, meanwhile, had been subjected to the ravages of time. His brown hair was graying; there were drink stains on his shirt that washing hadn't been able to get rid of. Despite that, however, his eyes were clear and intelligent.

The two men seated themselves at another table, while Lestrade dropped in at ours and eventually - on my sincere recommendation - he ordered some lamb for himself as well.

"I think we'll interview Wright first, Lestrade," Holmes said.

Lestrade stood up. "I'll go get Wright, then."

He came back with Wright, who set himself down opposite to us with a big sigh.

"All right, then," he said with more than a hint of a Cockney accent. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

Holmes looked at him with some amusement.

"I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is doctor Watson," he said. "We'll be doing an investigation into a dangerous criminal, and I asked Lestrade for some men I could trust. You came quite highly recommended, in fact."

"Pull the other one," said Wright, snorting.

"I'm sorry?" I asked, bemused.

"Pull the other one, I said," Wright repeated. "The fantastic Mr. Holmes, wanting to work with me? I've been at this job for a miserable thirty years already, and frankly I'm finally starting to like it. I'm not buying it, or this sudden chance at a big-shot investigation."

"If that's how you really feel," said Holmes, with a smile, "then I believe that'll be all, thank you."

Wright stood up, barely offering a brusque nod before walking out the pub entirely.

Lestrade sat there, looking askew at Holmes. "What was the point of all that?" he asked.

"For some interviews," said Holmes, "it matters just as much what's not being said. Do take note of that, Lestrade."

Lestrade just nodded, dumbly. What exactly this was supposed to teach him, however, even I did not know.

"Armstrong next, please," Holmes asked.

Armstrong all but sauntered over to our table. He sat with a straight back, his voice was warm and steady, his countenance calm; here, I thought, was the very model of a proper copper.

When we had made sufficient small talk about this and that, Holmes cleared his throat.

"Mr. Armstrong," said he, "I'm sure you would quite like to know for what reason you have been called here?"

"Well, yes, sir," Armstrong said.

"Let me tell you, then. I've been on the trail of a dangerous criminal for quite some time," said Holmes, repeating his earlier spiel. "Lestrade recommended you most warmly to participate in the investigation."

"Why," said Armstrong, his eyes wide, "it would be quite an honour to work with you, Mr. Holmes."

"Capital," said Holmes, smiling. "Now, of course, I do have some other requirements of the men I'll be working with. Would you mind terribly my asking you about them?"

"It's no problem at all, sir," Armstrong said earnestly.

"Then let us cut straight to the heart of the matter, Constable," said Holmes. "First of all, do you drink?"

"Not often, sir," said Armstrong, making himself comfortable. "I do occasionally indulge, but only when I'm off duty, of course."

Holmes nodded approvingly. "Very good, Mr. Armstrong," he said. "I hear, by the by, that you have recently been promoted to Sergeant?"

"Why, yes, sir, that's true," said Armstrong, faintly glowing with pride.

"My congratulations. This may be a bit of an odd question, Mr. Armstrong," Holmes continued, "but do you follow the cricket?"

"Not particularly, sir," said he. "I was always more of a football lad, frankly."

He suddenly seemed a bit nervous. "I could pick up some knowledge of the game if that were necessary, of course," he reassured Holmes.

"No need to worry, Mr. Armstrong, just an idle question," Holmes responded. "Onto the final question I have for you, then. Is it profitable, leaking information to criminals?"

Armstrong's easy smile froze. "What?" he asked.

"Is it profitable to leak information to criminals?" Holmes repeated. "I should hope so, to risk your career like this."

"But, sir -" he looked wildly from Holmes, to me, then Lestrade, whose face had grown stony and cold.

"This is an outrage!" he cried, standing up from his seat. "I came here for an interview, not to have unfounded accusations thrown into my face!"

"Calm down, Mr. Armstrong," Holmes said quietly. "You've been caught. I advise that you come quietly with us back to Scotland Yard."

But Armstrong had no intention of doing so. He ripped Lestrade's arm from his shoulder, with which the other man had tried to restrain him. He very nearly bowled over the table in his haste to get away, and despite Lestrade's best efforts he managed to sprint to the door and left into the night.

Holmes and I ran outside, looking as to where he might have disappeared; but there was no sign of him. Dark as it was, even Holmes could not immediately find any trace of the escapee; by the time I had brought over a lantern, Holmes was shaking his head next to some hansom tracks.

"We've lost our man, then?" I asked, panting.

"We have, Watson," Holmes said, unhappily. "It appears he's escaped our grasp."

"But, Holmes," Lestrade asked, "how on earth did you know he was the leak?"

"Because I immediately saw several signs that seemed suspicious," he said, heading back to our table. The rest of the public house's customers stared at us; it was not every day a man bolted for the exit, I should wager.

"Such as?"

"First," he said, sitting down, "there was the fact his coat bore signs of being excessively washed recently. It's easy enough to spot the creases where the coat must have laid on a washing rack. Furthermore, there is of course the aroma of soap which emanates from it."

"But could that not have been left from the last washing day?" I asked.

"The day everything gets washed is Monday, Watson. Today is a Thursday evening, so I rather doubt that that is the case."

"So the coat has been washed recently," Lestrade admitted. "Presumably to get the blood out of it. What else is there?"

"I have in the past often identified men by their profession, Watson, wouldn't you say?" said Holmes.

"Well, yes, that's true enough," I said. "But we know his profession already."

"But," said Holmes, smiling, "we did not know his sport. You see, for much the same reasons that a man is defined by his labour, he is also defined by his choice of sport - and, also, obviously his abstaining from sport altogether.

"For a cricketer," he continued, "there are several possible identifying characteristics. The simplest one is, of course, the particular gait. A cricketer walks, and runs, quite differently than a football player might, and Mr. Armstrong's gait fit the cricketer's trot quite exactly."

"So when he said he wasn't much for cricket," Lestrade said, then trailed off.

"Yes, that's when I knew he was lying to us. It was confirmed quite thoroughly when he corrected himself and said he could learn more. I could almost read his thoughts through his eyes: first, he denied having anything to do with cricket, just in case we might connect him to the conspiracy; second, when he realizes it might mean he is not useful to our fictitious group who are, in his eyes, probably there to inquire as to the cricket scandal, he hurriedly adds something so we might still consider him valuable."

"That's when you knew?" I asked.

"I had my suspicions before that, of course. Leaving aside the details of his coat and him lying to us, I had my eye on him since our previous cooperation - the details of which I shall tell you at a later date," Holmes said. "And he also fits quite neatly within the mold of a policeman who might leak information."

"How so?" Lestrade asked.

"He was incredibly hungry for a promotion. I have often recommended to Scotland Yard that they investigate any man who angles for a promotion particularly closely, but they have not acquiesced as of yet, it seems."

"But why should they?" I asked, bewildered.

"It is imperative that they know why a man should want a pay raise. If he wants it because he needs the money, for example, then that very same need of money gives his creditors a lever. As Aristotle said, 'Give me a lever and I will lift up the world'. It is not merely so for objects; it is also so for men."

Lestrade looked unhappy. "I believe my answer the last time is that there is no man without a lever, Holmes," said he. "But if you'll excuse me, I'll need to report all this in."

But Lestrade lingered, on the edge of walking away.

"I have one additional request," Lestrade said. "Promise me, Holmes, that when you're in the process of finding out where Armstrong has hidden himself, you bring me with you and let me take him in. I owe him that much."

And, with that, he went out, back into that cold, dark and stormy night.


	13. The Magician & The Moon, Part 2

The investigation had somewhat stalled after Armstrong had fled; we could not find anything with which to implicate him, although his very escape was rather suggestive. On the other hand, neither could we find any trace of him; he seemed to have gone to ground very thoroughly, and though Holmes had some suspicion that he must still be in London, neither he nor the police could track their man down. It had been about two days since then.

The solution, then, was obvious; we would need to go to the Locus to find where he had hidden himself. Holmes and I, however, had differing opinions on how we should go about it, and it is one of the few times I can recall having a row with him.

"Let us go, Watson," said Holmes, already grabbing his card.

"We will not take Lestrade with us?" I asked.

"Why should we?" Holmes asked, his eyebrow raised. "He has no idea of the dangers involved, and frankly I should very much like to keep it that way."

"Come now, Holmes," I argued. "We cannot treat the man like a child and leave him behind while we do his work for him!"

Holmes sighed. "It is simply not safe, Watson. Even we, who have awakened, face mortal danger every time we come face to face with a Guardian."

"He's a police officer, Holmes, for crying out loud!" I said, raising my voice. "Mortal danger is a hazard he has agreed to confront!"

"He cannot agree to something he does not know about," Holmes riposted, his voice rising in turn. "Lestrade became a police officer knowing of one set of risks, not those of the Polis."

"Lestrade himself demanded to be taken with us, no matter what," I responded. "Think of his feelings, Holmes!"

Holmes threw up his hands, agitation visible on his face. "And you will recall, of course, that I never agreed to do so! Frankly, Watson, why are you so intent on subjecting him to the dangers of the Polis?"

"Because we have faced difficulty after difficulty in the Polis, as of late," I said, managing to bring my voice back under my control. "You were nearly killed by the Warden, and I was nearly a victim of the Butcher. We two alone are not always enough, Holmes!"

To this, he had no immediate counter-argument; with a hint of moodiness clouding over his features, he walked to his pipe and stuffed it to the brink with tobacco, and set to pacing.

"You realize, of course, that we cannot guarantee his safety? That he might not awaken, even though you are hoping he might?" Holmes pressed.

"Of course," I said, affronted that he thought me so thoughtless. "But even then, the potential gains are enormous."

"Always the gambler, Watson," said Holmes sardonically.

I rose from my seat in protest, but as he had said it a look of regret and vulnerability flashed across his face.

"I am sorry, Watson," Holmes said quietly. "I should not have said that."

"You should not have," I said, just as quiet. "But then I've said things I've come to regret as well, so let us let bygones be bygones."

We shook hands on it, and with that the tension disappeared from the room. I fell gratefully back into my chair.

"You will take charge of Lestrade, of course," Holmes warned me. "You will be his bodyguard, Watson. If anything should happen to either of us, the other will immediately take Lestrade back."

"Very well, Holmes," I said. I thought that, contrary to what Holmes seemed to believe, Lestrade could be trusted to take care of himself, but kept my thoughts to myself.

Holmes grabbed his jacket. "Now then," he said, "I'll need to send Lestrade a telegram, and a walk might do me some good either way."

And with that, he left for the post office.

Lestrade came by at three o'clock that afternoon, clearly eager for some form of lead.

He had, by this point, somewhat recovered from his previous gaunt appearance, and regained his confidence.

"Welcome, Lestrade," said Holmes.

"Afternoon, gentlemen," Lestrade said. "Holmes, you said you had some new information?"

"In a sense," Holmes said. He plucked the Hanged Man card from his pocket and held it up. "You see, Lestrade, I have here in my possession a key to Armstrong's mind."

Lestrade peered at it, frowning. "I don't follow," he finally said. "I can't recall ever seeing Armstrong with it before."

"That's because it's mine," said Holmes. "But before I use it to unlock Armstrong's mind, Lestrade, Watson and I have decided to hold a small interview of our own."

"If you must," Lestrade said with some apprehension.

"Firstly, Lestrade, do you recall that you swore an oath upon becoming a constable, that you would, to the best of your power, cause the peace to be kept and preserved?"

"I very much do, and I have always abided by it," said Lestrade, stiffening as he took this to be another rebuke of Holmes'.

"Excellent," Holmes said. "You agree that your task is to keep people safe, both physically and mentally?"

"Well, yes," Lestrade responded. "Where is this going, Holmes?"

"What would you say, then, Lestrade," Holmes asked, presenting his card anew, "if I told you this was a key to any mind, with sufficient preparation?"

"Really, now!" Lestrade cried. "Doctor Watson, what on Earth is he on about?"

"I suspect it will be faster to show you than to explain," I said, resigned to Holmes' theatrics and avoiding Lestrade's incredulous look.

"This, Lestrade," said Holmes, "is the card of the Hanged Man."

And all three of us were gripped by that queer, rocking sensation, as if the ground beneath our feet was picked up by some giant hand and transported elsewhere; I saw Lestrade stumble and grab for the nearest thing to hold onto, but then everything faded into white light.

Holmes and I, used to the transition by now, landed easily and lightly on our feet; Lestrade, however, had fallen on his feet nearby.

"What the Hell - " he began, and then followed with a sequence of curses so vile they would make a sailor blush.

"Where are we?" Lestrade demanded.

"The Polis, Lestrade. More specifically, my Locus," said Holmes. "Think of it as a visualization of my memories, my thoughts - in short, my being."

Lestrade pointed an unsteady finger at Holmes. "What on Earth does that mean?" he asked.

"We are in the confines of his mind, Lestrade," I said, in an attempt to soothe him. "Calm down, there's nothing to be worried about."

"Nothing to be worried about?" he cried. "I've just been transported to what Holmes would have me believe is his soul, and there's nothing to be worried about?"

"This is why I didn't want to bring him here, Watson," Holmes said.

"Shush, Holmes, and let me explain," I responded.

Finally, after a tense few minutes, Lestrade had calmed down somewhat, and we managed to tell him the little we knew about the Polis so far.

"So this is Holmes' mind, then?" he asked again, this time looking about him with interest. I suppose the reality of it hadn't sunk in yet while he was in the throes of panic. 

Before I could warn him, he walked forward and touched one of the books, which flipped itself open. I could not see which memory Lestrade had accidentally seen, but by the way both he and Holmes stumbled I was at the very least certain that he had seen one.

"Convinced now?" I asked, as both of them caught their breath.

"I am beginning to believe it," Lestrade said. "I wish I didn't, but God help me I am."

"Eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, no matter how unlikely, must be the truth," said Holmes. "Although the unlikeliness of this is somewhat greater than usual, I admit."

He looked at his watch. "I do think that it is time we set out, however, Watson."

Herne materialized behind him, looking at Lestrade, who swore again.

"By God, Holmes, I wish you'd have warned me first," he said. "It's a ghoulish thing, isn't it?"

He looked at it, studying. "And you have control over it?"

"It is him, and he is it," I said. "You control it more or less like you control yourself."

"But how?" Lestrade asked.

"It's quite instinctual, really," I said. Without me moving a finger, Llud appeared behind me and tore its spear through a rough figure-eight.

Lestrade stared, then sighed. "I'll suppose I'll stop questioning this and just get on with it," he said.

"Very well," said Holmes, who by the expression on his face must have found Armstrong's Locus. "Shall we head out?"

"Where to?" I asked, as I held open the door which had materialized from the floor.

"To a destination I'm sure you'll be thrilled to know," said Holmes. "Armstrong's Locus is, as it turns out, a cricket field."

Holmes walked ahead, at his usual rapid pace; I hung back with Lestrade, who was looking around him in wonder.

"You two seem fairly used to this," he said somewhat grudgingly, as he stepped entirely clear of a lantern and the strange shadows it cast.

"We've had some months to get used to it, after all," I responded.

"We're here," Holmes said, abruptly.

Armstrong's Locus looked, from the outside, like a solidly-built, expensive country home, which made it look somewhat out of place among its neighbours, which were small and somewhat cramped.

Its walls were made from solid stone, which had been left untouched by weather, but were now being pummeled by the storm that raged above the house, and only that house. Its slate roof and stained-glass windows were currently enduring the weather's unrelenting assault; how much longer they would last, I did not know.

"I thought you said this would be a cricket field," Lestrade said, accusingly.

"You will find it bigger on the inside, Lestrade," Holmes said, and he opened the door.

True to what Holmes had said before we set out, the inside of the Locus was a cricket field - or, perhaps, it would be more accurate to say it was an entire stadium.

The field itself was large and open, the lines painted on its grass bright and flawless; the pitch itself, located in the very centre of the field, had been clearly delineated by another set of white lines.

Inside the wicket, two stumps had been hammered into the ground; as far as I could see everything was according to regulations.

On every side, the field was surrounded by stands, in which we could see score upon score of shadow, all clad in similar officious outfits, and cheering. Barriers barred their way to the field, although they seemed pleased enough to merely look on.

But the field was almost entirely empty, except for a single being, which I assumed it to the Guardian.

It was the first Guardian we saw that was shaped entirely unlike a man; it was an enormous serpent, so long that its body extended far into the distance. I should think that it could have easily coiled itself around the entire field if it so wished.

Its head was a mocking facsimile of Armstrong's own head, grotesquely over-sized to fits on its gargantuan body. It was smiling mockingly as it swerved towards us, and a forked serpent's tongue, silver in colour, flickered occasionally from his lips as he spoke.

"Welcome, gentlemen," the Serpent said, its voice entirely human-like and melodious. "Do you wish to join us for a game?" Its head nodded at the pitch.

Lestrade, already pale with fright, inched backwards.

"What on God's green Earth is that thing?" he hissed.

"It is Armstrong's Guardian," Holmes said. "Although I have to say that usually they are not so communicative."

The Serpent laughed, a cruel sound that sent shivers down my spine. "I aim to please, gentlemen," it said.

I stepped forward. "What would this game involve?" I asked.

"Just a game of cricket," the Serpent assured me. "You are game, I hope?"

"We will have to refuse," Holmes said.

The Serpent shook its head. "A pity," it murmured. "Then there is no reason to extend this."

It loomed large over us, and with a mighty roar it slammed its bulk into the pitch, so hard that we could feel the ground quake beneath our feet.

"You are sure, gentlemen?" it asked once again.

I swallowed and turned to Holmes. "Perhaps," I said, "it might be better if we accepted its offer."

"Very well," said Holmes, frowning gravely. "What are your terms?" he asked.

The Serpent smiled. "If I win, then I shall do as I please. If you win, then of course I will do whatever you ask of me."

"Including revealing your master's location?" I asked.

"Of course, sir," it said, still smiling that queer smile.

"We accept," Holmes shouted.

"You know the rules, Holmes?" I asked. "The game consists of -"

"Thank you, Watson, but I do know the rules," Holmes said firmly, though there was a glint in his eye I could not identify.

I looked around me. "But there's not nearly enough players, in any case," I said.

The Serpent laughed its booming, cruel laugh, and then spat out gobs of venom on the field.

The venom curdled the grass, and everything that touched it died; a filthy miasma spread from the places where the venom had landed, which then coalesced into more shadows, all wearing the same cricket uniforms.

Some of these new shadows were wearing black, others white; I tensed as they all walked towards us, but they made no aggressive movements to us.

"Is that enough players, sir?" the Serpent said, its contempt clear.

I bristled but held myself back. "Very well then," I said, having counted; there were a total of 11 shadows in white and 8 in black, enough to form two teams.

"Hold on, Watson," said Holmes. "And the umpire?" he asked, looking at the Serpent.

"I will be the umpire, of course," it responded, and raised its head so it loomed over us threateningly. "Is there a problem with that?"

"No," said Holmes. "Merely confirming a theory, I suppose."

"What do I do, Holmes?" Lestrade asked.

"Just sit this out for now, Lestrade," he said. "But be sure to keep an eye out for whatever happens."

One of the shadows in white came forward, a coin in its hand. Before we could say any more, the coin was thrown in the air; it did not take a man of Holmes' excellent eyesight to see that the coin was not flipping in the air, and instead remained perfectly still before landing.

"Heads," the shadow spoke, its grin enormous. "You go first, sir."

"But that coin is obviously rigged!" I cried in outrage.

The shadow in white smiled widely. "You bat first, sir," it repeated.

Holmes touched my shoulder, dissuading me from pursuing this any further. Together we walked to the center of the pitch and were handed bats. With that, the game began.

I was first up to bat, and readied myself by bending my knees and holding out the bat. Llud appeared behind me, its presence lending me strength and speed.

But while I had expected any sort of legal ball, that was not what I got. The first ball to be thrown at me by one of those grinning shadows went so wide that I had no delusions of hitting it.

"There we go," I said under my breath; but then, I noticed that the Serpent was also smiling.

"One run to the white team," it said, and the stands erupted in cheering. "Try again, gentlemen."

"But that ball was obviously wide," I shouted. "How is that not a run for us?"

"I saw nothing of the sort," it responded mockingly. "I won't be tricked, sir."

From the corner of my eye, I noticed the shadow step back, starting its run to throw the ball; I hurriedly stepped back into position, retaking my earlier pose.

But this time I had to duck; the ball was thrown with such force, directly at my face, that it could be nothing other than a deliberate attack on me. I heard its whistling as it tore through the air, barely more than a few inches away from my ear, and then I heard the jeers of the crowd.

Yet again, Holmes had to calm me down.

"Listen carefully, Watson," he said. "The Serpent does not play fair, and has not even the slightest intention of doing so."

"But then how are we meant to win?" I asked.

"I am trying to figure that out, Watson," he said. "We must keep at it until we find some vulnerability we can target."

And yet, though I kept trying to score by keeping my play as clean as I could, it was soon apparent to me that there was nothing we could do.

The umpire was, as Holmes had said, obviously biased; it ruled in the opposing team's favor no matter what happened.

Not only was the Serpent biased, those shadows on our team were actively cooperating against us, and the crowd ate it up; when the score was 200 runs in their favor, I hung my head, convinced we were finished.

And then, out of the corner of my eyesight I saw Holmes draw his pistol and, aiming carefully while the Serpent was looking at something else, he tried to shoot it in the eye.

The bullet flew at the Serpent's head, but it moved about at the very last instant, causing the bullet to hit it square in the forehead instead. It bounced off, the Serpent's head barely even moving as it registered the impact.

The shadows littered about the field all stopped smiling, and exploded once more into that vile miasma from which they had originated. From the stands, as if in one voice, booing erupted.

And, before I could react, the Serpent contorted itself to loom above us. It was no longer smiling.

"That is the end of the game, then, gentlemen. If you cannot hold yourself to the rules, then you have chosen death," it hissed, and its immense tail swung with such force that it tore at the air.


	14. The Magician & The Moon, Part 3

The Serpent's enormous tail bore down on us, so large that it blotted out almost the entire sky. It fell with such speed that even from the ground we could hear the air shriek from its passage.

Holmes and I sprinted away, desperate not to get caught underneath it; the consequences would most certainly be fatal.

Just as I dove out of its path, the tail slammed into the ground with such enormous force that the ground shook beneath our feet. I was all but thrown off my feet, rolling over the grass. The crowd cheered.

"Make for the wicket, Watson!" Holmes shouted.

I picked myself up and ran for the wicket where we had just been so soundly defeated.

But the Serpent had heard Holmes just as well as I had it, it seemed; the tip of its tail, nearly half as tall as a man, flicked back and forth, before it flew at me.

"Bufu!" I cast, improvising. The ground before me erupted with spikes of ice, which fused together to make a simple wall, that I dove behind. I would have to hope it would do.

The tail slammed into the ice sculpture. Instead of being halted entirely, it slid over it and blessedly passed me by entirely. The crowd cried out as one.

I scrambled out from behind the ice wall I had created, just in time for the tail's tip to flick back to me and destroy it entirely, causing small shards of ice to explode outwards.

Luckily, they missed me entirely; on the other hand, the Serpent did not seem to be effected by my ice whatsoever.

Finally I made it to the wicket in the middle of the field. Holmes had arrived before me, and was attempting to catch his breath.

"It won't attack this place," Holmes said, panting. "I suspect it's because it might knock over its own stumps or some such nonsense."

The Serpent sneered as it saw us huddling in that tiny demarcated box.

"Hiding, gentlemen?" it mocked, and then reared its head back to spit more globs of acidic venom.

Where the venom hit the grass, it once more sizzled and kicked up clouds of seething miasma, which formed themselves into more of those uniform-clad shadows.

This time, however, there was but a single color present on every cricketer's uniform: white, the color of the opposing team. The players, too, were different; they had grown taller, their arms had become thickly corded with muscle, and in their shovel-like hands they all wielded enormous cricket bats from which grew sharpened, blood-flecked spikes.

They advanced upon us as one, from every side; I turned around and around, but I could barely see the grass anymore.

"Magaru!" Holmes cried, and the shrieking wind tore at the shadows' thick-set forms.

It had some effect, I was glad to see, and I lent Holmes what support I could. I had not mastered the same trick he had learned to target every enemy at once, so I was reduced to attacking them one by one.

But whatever I did and no matter the number of shadows I defeated, their numbers still seemed endless. Panting, I fell back.

"Holmes!" I suddenly heard Lestrade cry, and we both looked over.

Three or so of the shadows had peeled off from the main group that was surrounding us even now and were haranguing Lestrade.

But we were trapped; we could not intervene, and even equipped with a pistol there was nothing he could do.

"Lestrade!" Holmes shouted, even his composure finally breaking.

I uttered a wordless cry and attempted to charge forward, but the shadows merely pushed me back. They no longer attempted to wound me, however, and in the pit of my stomach I felt that perhaps they had some more horrible fate in store for us.

"My word," said the Serpent, delighted. "Lestrade? That useless tit?"

Lestrade, two shadows holding him down with ease, stilled.

The Serpent laughed. "Thank you very much, sirs!" it shouted. "I'll take particular care to enjoy your offering!"

"Offering?" Lestrade shouted. "Is that what I am to you?"

"Really now, Lestrade," the Serpent said. "What possible other use do you have? You are a mere stepping stone to me on my way to Commissioner. And from that point forward, the riches I could accumulate!"

"Have you no decency, man?" Lestrade cried. "Do you not care for justice at all?"

"What justice?" asked the Serpent. "Justice is barely worth the pennies I'll sell it for!"

This, it appeared, had finally pushed Lestrade to the limit. The shadows around him were suddenly finding themselves completely unable to hold him back; it appeared rage had given him strength that they could not match.

The shadows thronging around us moved back, and finally we could see Lestrade clearly once more.

His eyes had turned from their usual murky brown into a clear, shining yellow. He stood tall, proud, unafraid.

**I art Thou.**

The Serpent roared its fury at him, and Holmes and I had to shield ourselves as the tail swept past us; Lestrade, however, caught the blow straight on his arm, shrugged as if it was nothing, looked the Serpent straight into the eye, and roared back.

**Thou art I.**

"I know you think of me as a blunt instrument of the state, gentlemen!" he shouted.

**Call upon my name, and let us rid the world of evil!**

"Very well! Then I shall be the bluntest, and the most instrumental!" Lestrade bellowed, and then he roared so loudly that it drowned out the Serpent's screeching: "Saint George!"

Light shone from his being, so bright that I had to look away; when it faded enough to the point where I could look again, I saw that behind Lestrade stood a fully-formed knight, resplendent in steel armour, wielding a large two-handed broadswords. A white cloth hung over its shoulders and the front of its chest, with a red cross emblazoned upon it.

"Ascalon!" Lestrade shouted, and George behind him swung its sword in an arc of beautiful light that expanded outwards and tore into the horde of shadows. The light was immediately effective, ripping the shadows apart with ease.

"Lestrade, over here!" I shouted, to which Lestrade nodded and George swung its sword again. Lines of pure light slashed through the throng that surrounded us, dissipating the shadows it touched.

Lestrade, however, had started to flag, his initial burst of power upon awakening starting to wear off.

I ran for the side of the field where he stood alone, and beside me I saw Holmes breaking into a run as well.

"Dia!" I cast, and Lestrade thanked me.

"Now then, gentlemen," said Holmes. "Only the Guardian remains."

And, as if to illustrate his point, the Serpent lashed out at us with its enormous tail.

"Bufu!" I commanded, and another ramp of ice was formed before us.

I had merely meant it to protect us from the impact, but as the tail soared over our heads impotently Lestrade stuck out George's sword and cut a deep scar into the blasted thing.

The Serpent screeched, ectoplasm flowing from its wound, and with its concentration broken its entire body fell to the ground.

From that point onwards we gave it no chance to recover its bearings. 

Quickly, Holmes and I found that while its scales were very nearly impervious to all harm, including the ice and the wind we could summon, Lestrade could cut through them with ease. Furthermore, its face was wholly unarmoured, leaving it a ripe target.

It did not escape my attention that the part of the Serpent's body that was the most vulnerable was also the part that was the most vain.

Finally, we subdued the beast. Bruises forming on its face with multiple wounds running across its body, it had completely given up the will to fight and lay there in a daze.

Holmes, Lestrade and I stood there, catching our breaths.

"Where is Armstrong, Guardian?" Holmes asked.

The Serpent whispered something so softly that I could not hear it, but Holmes caught it all the same, and he seemed satisfied with this answer.

"Well then," Holmes finally said. "Let's search for the Fool's Shard, shall we?"

To better cover the immense area we needed to search, we split up. Holmes declared the body his to search and Lestrade searched its head- the better to resist were the Serpent to stir itself anew.

I, meanwhile, was at Holmes' instruction made to learn some more about my healing spell, by means of experimentation. Now that our numbers were growing, it was imperative that I learn to apply that same trick Holmes had discovered to apply one spell to multiple targets.

It was Holmes who was the first to discover the Fool's Shard, of course. He shouted at us to come take a look.

The Shard had been located in one of the scales on the snake's back, stuck halfway through it and deforming the webbing of scales around it. However, the scale seemed strengthened and not weakened by the addition of the Shard.

We duly extracted it, and Lestrade looked at it carefully.

"Hold on," he said. "What's this, then?"

Lestrade showed us what he himself had found, at the tip of the Serpent's tail: another Fool's Shard.

"There's two?" I asked, bewildered. "This is the first time that we've encountered more than one."

"Indeed," said Holmes. "It's odd that there should be two."

He compared the two shards from the Serpent from every angle, even taking out his loupe and the shards we had already collected from the Warden and the Butcher.

"There are no meaningful differences," Holmes finally concluded. "In shape, they are of course different as all shards are, but they seem to have the same composition, similar weights, and more. They even have a similar scent to Herne, lacking as that description truly is."

"So both are real Shards, then?" I inquired.

"If they are not," said Holmes, "then it is beyond my ability to tell that either of them is not."

"But what does this mean?" Lestrade asked.

"Fool's Shards are materializations of potential," I offered. "Perhaps it just means Armstrong's potential was that much greater?"

"Then I think the two shards should have merged into one, greater shard," Holmes responded, thinking deeply.

"It could be a mere function of its size," Lestrade said. "I'm not particularly clear on the cases so far, but weren't all the Guardians until this point much smaller?"

"Shards do not seem to correspond to their owner, however," I said. "If you look at this shard, which we retrieved from the Butcher, and the shard which we retrieved from the Prisoner, they are roughly similar in shape. I would not be able to tell one from another if I did not already know their origins.

But there is something else which puzzles me," he added. "Until this point, we have confronted some four Guardians. Each was normally in the shape of a man, and while the Serpent certainly shared some similarities there is an important commonality to the others that it quite obviously lacks."

"Limbs?" I guessed.

"Correct, Watson. It lacks limbs."

"But how is that relevant?" Lestrade asked.

"It is quite simple, Lestrade: every single of the Guardians with a Fool's Shard so far has had the means to implant it themselves, no matter how they came across it."

"And the Serpent lacks that ability," I realized.

"Exactly," Holmes said. "My hypothesis so far has been that the Fool's Shards were seen as treasures by the Guardians, and seeking to take it for themselves they put it into their bodies."

"Ah," I said, realizing what he was driving at. "But now the Serpent cannot have done that. So your hypothesis is incorrect."

"Indeed," said Holmes. "I must now return to the original theory - that is, that our mysterious interloper has planted the Fool's Shards. But there are a myriad of questions still to be resolved before I can declare this hypothesis more valid than the one we just discarded."

"Such as?" Lestrade asked.

"We have not yet established the three most important questions: the culprit, the method, and the motive. Or, put another way, the who, the how, and the why." He shook his head. "And then they are merely the beginning. How are the new owners of the Shards selected? For what purpose would the interloper even give them away at all? By what means did he come into possession of the Fool Arcana, and for what purpose did he shatter it?"

"I catch your point," I said.

"You begin to see the problem, Watson," he said. "There have been little enough clues as of late that, frankly, I am glad to have seen this particular oddity."

Holmes looked at the Serpent once more, curiosity clear from his gaze. "Would that I knew when the second Shard was implanted in Armstrong."

"Of us three you know him best, Lestrade," I said. "Do you happen to have any knowledge of when he might have received such a thing?"

Lestrade shook his head. "I thought I knew him," he said bitterly.

"But still, you have spent some time with him, yes?"

He merely grunted in response. His face contorted in distaste, until finally it cleared up.

"Must've been the promotion, I think," he said. "Thought it was a mite fishy at the time, but we were friends. I couldn't investigate deeper without it becoming impolitic, as it were."

"Fishy?" I asked. "How so?"

"Just general oddities," Lestrade said. "The timing always seemed a bit too quick, to be entirely honest, and while he did distinguish himself in the Sumatran case and several other, more minor cases, it was never to the point that he'd gain widespread acclaim or have his name all up in the papers."

He sighed. "Frankly I'd always just thought he had an uncle somewhere higher up in the force who looked out for him. More common than I'd like to admit."

"But how could he have obtained his promotion, if it is not because of this patron?" I asked.

Lestrade shook his head. "There's a few ways," he said grimly. "Most obviously, there are bribes, of course, to which some men of the force are sadly still susceptible."

"Would it then not be the case that the conspiracy has yet more hooks into the police force?" I asked, horrified.

At this point, Holmes joined in, having finished his session of deep thought. "It is a possibility," he said, "but I think it is not an extremely likely one."

Lestrade looked relieved, if bemused. "How so?"

Holmes gestured around him. "Consider what role the Serpent took. If you recall, he was the umpire - the position of authority, when it comes to the game."

"Be that as it may, Holmes," said Lestrade, "I don't see how that's relevant."

"It means that there is no higher authority on the field than him when the game is being played. The game, of course, must be symbolizing his daily life. Then if he takes the highest position of authority..." he trailed off suggestively.

"Then there is no one higher placed than him!" Lestrade completed his sentence, relieved as he considered this.

"It is, however, a mere possibility," Holmes warned him. "It may be suggestive that we did not encounter a being that assumed authority over the Serpent, but it is by no means a conclusive proof."

"However, Holmes," I asked, "a question just struck me - if there is no higher authority, then where are the agents of the conspiracy itself?"

I peered at the stands. "Is it the audience, perhaps?"

Holmes shook his head. "No, Watson. They are too powerless; they do not give orders to the Serpent, you see. I should think that even Armstrong does not know the specifics of their identities."

He checked his watch. "But it is high time we get going, gentlemen. We cannot stay here forever. The sooner we act upon the information of Armstrong's address, the better, I think."

We left Armstrong's Locus in high spirits: Holmes having obtained a new clue, I having gained a new colleague who could help us from now on, and Lestrade, who seemed tired but content at his awakening.

Indeed, during our trip back I noticed George flickering in and out of sight behind Lestrade and exchanged a quiet smile with Holmes; Lestrade looked some ten years younger.

We arrived home at 221B Baker Street without further incident; Lestrade, having declined our offer of a good brandy, set off to set a snare around Armstrong, from which this time he would be unable to escape.

And, indeed, Lestrade proved to be successful. Armstrong was caught hiding at the address the Serpent gave us, a house that had been registered under a false name, and was summarily arrested.

However, as Armstrong had always negotiated through an intermediary, he could not identify any of the men who had bought his information. Already battered by the blow that one of their colleagues should turn out to be an informant, it seems Scotland Yard decided not to publicize Armstrong's case and instead focused on bringing Guiliani to justice.

Indeed, I remember with remarkable clarity the article which appeared in the newspaper upon Guiliani's arrest. It went on at length about the atrocities he had committed, and presented a spirited defense of our police force.

I remarked on this to Holmes, and he chuckled.

"A case begun in obscurity is, I find, best concluded the same way, Watson," he said, and disappeared behind his newspaper.


	15. The King of Cups

The night after we had finally caught Armstrong and bid Lestrade adieu, we were once more summoned to the Velvet Room. 

I found myself awakening once again in that bizarre hansom, its sides surely too wide to fit any street. That was not to mention the fog, because of which the driver should not have been able to see where they were driving, in any case.

"Welcome back, gentlemen," Igor said, chuckling. "It has been some time."

Holmes looked about him, clearly wondering over some question.

"Lestrade is not with us?" he inquired.

"No, mister Holmes," Igor said. "You gentlemen are the only ones I originally contacted, and I am limited to direct contact with you two alone. However, I would like to congratulate mister Lestrade on his successful awakening."

"You are not displeased?" I asked.

"I am not, doctor Watson," Igor said. "He had the potential, and he has finally awakened to it. It is a joyous occasion, to be sure."

"We have your permission, then, to introduce others to the Polis?" Holmes asked to confirm.

"Indeed, mister Holmes. But be aware that not everyone has the potential to awaken."

"How so?" I asked.

"Awakening to their alter-ego has certain rules. These vary from occasion to occasion, but always there must be a strong sense of self."

"There are no other prerequisites to awakening?" Holmes pressed. "For instance, all three of us so far have had a profession that marks us as separate from the common people. All three of us is past a certain age, and are male."

"Your profession, your age, and your gender do not matter overly much, mister Holmes. I am afraid that there is no particular condition that sets the awakened apart."

"A shame," Holmes murmured. "I had hoped there would some clue that would bring us onto the interloper's spoor."

"Might I offer some perspective on the cases you have encountered so far, mister Holmes? I think it might be welcome recompense," Igor asked.

At Holmes' nod, Igor waved his hand, and from the top of the deck he always had by his side flew four more cards. 

They laid themselves out across the table, forming no regular figure that I could make out. Two of the cards laid nearby each other, but the other two were spread out haphazardly.

"First," said Igor, "number 2 in the Tarot deck. The Priestess, also called the High Priestess or the Papess."

His hand moved over the card, and apparently under its own power it turned itself over.

It depicted a woman sitting down on some sort of seat, located between two pillars - one black, one white. She was wearing a tiara of some kind, though I could not identify which. Its lettering was turned towards Igor and not towards us, meaning that it had been reversed.

"It represents the divine feminine, which in turn refers to the female intuition and the deep unknown," Igor said. "But as it has become reversed, it means that that intuition has been lost. The path your heart tells you to take has become obscured, and you have become unwilling or unable to take it."

"It seems to apply more to Mrs. Baker than to Mr. Atkinson," I remarked.

"That is quite true, doctor Watson," said Igor, chuckling. "It is a remarkable confluence, you see. The Warden took control over the Prisoner, and the Arcana reflects this. The Prisoner voluntarily ceded control."

"I see," I said, though the matter wasn't entirely clear to me.

"Onto the second, then," said Igor, waving his hand again. Another card flipped over, and I saw that its lettering had once more been turned to face Igor.

It depicted what was unambiguously a king or some other sort of lord: a man dressed in fine, if somewhat outdated clothing and who wore a crown on his head. In one hand, he wielded a scepter. He had a long, white beard, which gave him a wise air.

"Number three, the Emperor," Igor said. "It is a card that symbolizes ruling by means of authority, by using strength and force."

"He is a tyrant, then?" I asked.

"Not necessarily," Igor said. "It also represents the paternal, the guiding hand. It establishes order, it enforces discipline, it imparts valuable knowledge. However, due to the reversal, calling him a tyrant is quite suitable. It is authority for authority's sake, gaining power by taking it from others."

"Ah," I said. "Which of course he did, in his role as pawnbroker."

"In fact," said Holmes, speaking up, "the bull was presumably meant to represent those he had taken control of, bleeding them of their money."

"Quite, mister Holmes," said Igor. "You are getting quite a handle on the more symbolic aspects of the Polis, I see. How gratifying."

Igor waved his hand for the third time. One of the cards which had remained on the table flipped itself over, but its edge was caught under the final unrevealed card, which was as a consequence flipped over as well.

The card Igor had meant to flip over depicted a moon, hanging high in a blue, clear sky. Two figures below the moon were staring up at it, and as the card had also been reversed by extension they were staring at us. Though they were mere paper their hungry eyes made me uncomfortable.

"Number eighteen, the Arcana of the Moon," said Igor. "It is one of the more negative Arcana, representing illusions and doubt."

"But it is still reversed," I pointed out. "Should that not mean a positive result?"

"What is a positive for one man is not always a positive for all," Igor said. "In this case, the reversal represents the freedom Armstrong sought from justice, which he saw as a mere illusion that was chaining him down."

"And the other card?" I asked.

"Number 1, the Magician," said Igor. "Also called the Magus, or perhaps the Juggler."

The card he pointed at depicted a man standing in a field before a table, a hand raised to the sky and an infinity symbol above his head. Unlike the other cards, the lettering pointed towards us - a card in the upright position, then.

"It represents full potential, you see," Igor said. "Those who fit the Magician Arcana are often figures who have potential, but need some catalyst for change to realize it."

"And that catalyst was the Moon," Holmes interrupted. "That's why the cards hung so tightly together."

"Is that why there are two shards?" I asked.

"Not quite, doctor Watson. It is true that the potential within the shard allowed mister Lestrade to change himself, and thereby awaken to his alter-ego. However, the possibility of awakening always resided within him; the process was merely eased by the shard.

But," said Igor, "consider the following. The second shard within Mr. Armstrong's mind is another shard that had been granted to him. Think of it as the first shard, which expressed the subtleties of the Moon Arcana, no longer being the most fitting shard for Mr. Armstrong. Then a second shard will become necessary to support the new path he has chosen for himself.

In this case, it is the shard associated with the Magician, as Armstrong now felt that he had thrown off the shackles of justice and could now live up to his full potential."

"But would the shard not dictate where he went from that point onwards, keeping him shackled to the Moon?" I asked.

"No, doctor Watson. It is important that you realize that the shards cannot change who you are," Igor said, putting a particular stress on this. "No matter the shard that you receive, your own personality will dictate what you do with the opportunities it grants. It is possible - though difficult and rare - that an Arcana changes as a result of experiences you have lived through. This is true for both the awakened and those not."

For example," Igor said. "If you suffered from some terrible injury, doctor Watson, you might find your Arcana to mutate to that of the Tower, which represents impending doom and physical injury. However, what the consequences of that might be are unknown even to me."

"Yet the question still remains, why go to the trouble of implanting two shards?" I asked. "For that matter, why implant even one?"

"Because the Shards grow," Holmes said, realization clearly dawning. "They are implanted because they feed off their owner."

"You are quite right, mister Holmes," Igor said. "They grow in potency by feeding off the experiences that their hosts provide. They take on the essence of their hosts, in fact."

"I see," I said. "So the Shards are spread out to collect power and then presumably later they are recollected?"

"Exactly," Igor said. "That is why it so vital that you find all Shards before the interloper does."

"But what exactly is he attempting to do with them?" Holmes asked. 

"I cannot say," Igor said, shaking his head. "That is what you must find out."

Now," Igor continued, peering at both of us in turn, "is there anything else?"

"I believe you had a question, Watson?" Holmes offered.

At first, this bemused me; then it finally dawned which question he meant.

I sprung up from my seat and knocked at the trapdoor set into the roof of the hansom. That same young face popped up immediately, smiling.

"Hullo!" Agatha said. Her hair was, as I had thought, the exact same colour as that of my late wife's, and though her face was somewhat different I could see intense similarities.

"Hello, Agatha," I said. "Could I ask you a question, please?"

"Sure, doctor Watson!" she replied.

"Do you happen to know a Mrs. Mary Watson, also known as Mrs. Mary Morstan?"

"Can't say I do, doctor!" she said, pulling at one of the reins aimlessly, though there were no horses anywhere near the hansom.

"I see," I said, crestfallen. I sat down, my heart heavy; I do not know what I was expecting, but I had held a hope somewhere that perhaps there was some relation.

"Who exactly is Miss Agatha, Igor?" Holmes asked.

"My attendant, mister Holmes," Igor replied. "If you are wondering at the similarity to someone you know -"

"Someone we knew, I'm afraid," Holmes said.

"Ah, that is more troubling," said Igor. "You see, miss Agatha is not a person summoned from the streets of London such as you or doctor Watson."

"She is not?" I asked.

"No, doctor. She is, like myself, not human."

"But then what is she? For that matter, what are you?"

"We are servants of a higher calling, to put it a particular way. If there are shadows, then there must be light. We are but pale reflections of that light, gentlemen. If we bear some resemblance to figures you know, then it is because you are filling in the details of those reflections with your own memories."

"I see," I said, though I truly didn't. But I had gotten the core of his message: Agatha was no relative of my wife's, no matter how much I might hope her to be.

"That is not to say, however," Igor continued, "that reflections cannot change. By having new experiences, we too grow."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"It may pain you, doctor Watson, that she is not a relative of your wife, but that is no reason to dismiss her," he chided me.

I looked at Agatha, who looked extremely uncomfortable to have caused me emotional pain, and I realized that I had been quite unkind to her.

"I'm very sorry, Agatha," I said. "You're your own person, of course."

"It's alright, doctor," she said, smiling, which made me feel all the more horrible.

"No, I insist," I said, putting on my most winsome smile. "Is there perhaps a way I can make it up to you?"

She hesitated. "I would quite like to try ice cream, doctor. Could I have that, please?"

"I don't mind, but how would I get it here?" I asked. "I can hardly take a pennylicker to bed with me."

Igor cut in smoothly, chuckling. "We can of course establish a pathway to the Velvet Room from the Polis, doctor Watson. Would that be suitable?"

"Well, yes, that would be excellent."

"Very well," Igor said, rummaging around underneath the table. After a few seconds he produced two keys of some unidentifiable material and handed one to Holmes, one to me.

"Those keys will allow you to enter the Velvet Room whenever you please, gentlemen. You will soon find a new door within your respective Loci."

Igor peered at us. "Is that all for now?"

"It is, yes," Holmes said. He had been watching from the sidelines as I had talked to Agatha, deep in thought.

"Then I bid you adieu," Igor said fondly, and clapped his hands.

That white light swept us away from the Velvet Room, and the last thing I saw before I awoke was Agatha waving cheerfully.


	16. The Chariot, Part 1

It was eight o'clock, or thereabouts, on a fine April morning. Holmes and I were seated at the breakfast table, he reading some of his usual correspondence and I scanning in a desultory manner the pages of the Daily News.

Finally I laid down the newspaper; it was about time for me to start my usual rounds. As I made to leave, however, Holmes made a small noise - a little surprised grunt.

"A new case?" I asked, eagerly. It had been the better part of a month since our visit to Igor, but no new cases had presented themselves in the meantime. Holmes may have suffocated under boredom, but I confess that I too had grown eager to venture out into the Polis myself.

"Why, yes, Watson," he said. "A telegram just arrived from Lestrade, in fact."

He passed the telegram to me. It read:

"SENDING CLIENT AT 10 O'CLOCK STOP FIRST CASE OF ITS KIND STOP MIGHT REQUIRE SPECIAL MEASURES STOP LESTRADE"

"I see," I said. "The first of its kind, he says. I wonder what he means by that?"

"That is a mystery even to me," Holmes said, chuckling. "Lestrade, whatever his faults may be, has years of experience to draw on, both his own and that of his fellow policeman. If it is the first of its kind then I shall have to take his word for it, for the time being."

I nodded and went out to notify my neighbour, doctor Jackson, who took over my rounds when inevitably Holmes and I were chasing some promising investigation. He agreed to take over my rounds, and I returned to 221B Baker Street to speculate with Holmes as to what the case might be, though neither of us would turn out to be correct - my guess of a ballooning murder was deemed too absurd, and Holmes could not think of any grounds on which a murder had not been committed in some case or another.

At 10 o'clock, our client arrived, announced by the boy in buttons as Mrs. Warburton.

It was immediately obvious that she was a widow; her clothes were black, and she wore the usual widow's weeds which hid most of her face from view. She was thin and tall, her manner betraying that her usual severity had been disrupted as of late. I should think she was some forty years of age, during some of which she had evidently experienced more hardship than most.

"Mr. Holmes, I presume," Mrs. Warburton said, her voice having a Bristol accent that I will not attempt to transliterate.

"Please, Mrs. Warburton, sit down," Holmes said. "This is my friend, doctor Watson."

"Thankee, mister Holmes," she said, and sat down. She blew her nose with a handkerchief which was knotted in several places.

Holmes studied her carefully. "Your husband was a sailor?" he asked.

"Why, mister Holmes, however did you know that?" she said, her eyes wide. 

"First, of course, there is your accent, which marks as being from Bristol," he said. "There are quite a great deal of naval men in Bristol, as I understand it. Furthermore, the knots in your handkerchief are definitive proof; they are knots favoured by sailors, and I presume that they are either his or your late husband taught you how to tie them."

"That's all true, mister Holmes; Jack taught me the knots as a game when we had just married," she said, in amazement. Tears threatened to flow once more, but she wiped them away.

"But whatever has happened, madam?" Holmes asked, as much in polite impatience to get to the case as in an attempt to comfort her.

"Well, mister Holmes, I'll tell you right and true," she said, and without further ado launched into the following account.

"Jack and I was married for some twenty years. I met him when I was serving in a bar, and he was a sailor some five years older than me. It was love at first sight," she said, hiding a sniffle. "Some years ago he gave up being a sailor to be with me longer - I had become dreadfully ill, you see, and there was every chance that I would not see his return if he ever set out on a long haul.

But, as you see, I became better, and he could start work again. But he had had enough of the dull life on ships. The sea was in his blood by this point, mister Holmes, but he had found a different job in the time that I had been ill. He became a salvager of ships."

"A salvager?" I asked. "He dove down to shipwrecks?"

"Yes, doctor Watson, and he was very good at it. He could always hold his breath longer than any other man I've known, and he's always been a strong man. The job was perfect for him: he knew the sea, and he loved that he could go deeper than ever before. I was wary of the whole endeavor, but he was happy and he made quite a decent salary besides, so I did not complain. Would that I had!"

She gathered her strength, and continued. "But recently the company for which he worked went on to salvage a new shipwreck, somewhere near Portsmouth. The SS Carnatic, I think I remember him saying."

"Would you mind terribly looking that up for me, Watson?" Holmes asked.

I trudged along to where Holmes' indexes were kept. 

"Here it is," I said. The article on the SS Carnatic mentioned that it had been involved in a catastrophic shipwreck near Portsmouth, where nearly two hundred people, crewmen and passengers both, had died. Among the victims were such notaries as Lord Woxham and his newly-married bride, on a honeymoon trip.

"I see," said Holmes, a glint in his eyes, though the reason for it was unknown to me. "Pray continue, Mrs. Warburton."

"They went to work as usual on the wreck, as far as I know. Jack had some complaints the previous night, about his boss, Captain Huxley, but that's as usual. It didn't worry me overly much. And then one fine morning he sets out like normal and..." she trailed off.

She looked close to tears as she said this; it was hard to blame her, the poor woman. The loss of a loved spouse was a torment I knew myself, and I would not wish it upon my worst enemy.

We gave her some time to gather herself, which she gratefully took without comment.

"What exactly happened, Mrs. Warburton?" Holmes asked, after a few minutes.

"I don't know, mister Holmes. As I was told he went for a regular dive, but there was some malfunction in his equipment that he failed to notice on time."

"But you do not think it is an accident, Mrs. Warburton?" he said gently.

She wrung her handkerchief. "I can't be sure, mister Holmes. There's no evidence that it is anything else, but in the pit of my stomach I just think something ain't right. Jack was always careful with his equipment and with his time table to make sure he didn't get the bends. I talked to the police, but none of them was willing to take the case."

"Don't you worry, Mrs. Warburton," Holmes said. "We'll help you and lay your worries to rest."

"Oh, thank you, mister Holmes!" she cried.

"There are, however, several more details I would like to hear from you, Mrs. Warburton."

"Of course, sir," said she.

"Is there any particular detail that strikes you as odd?"

"I can't say, sir. I wasn't allowed near the site, and I didn't much like the rough company there, in any case. But..." she trailed off.

"But?" Holmes prompted.

"Jack's had some incidents before, but this is the first time it's gone so horribly wrong, really," she said. "It's never happened to anyone else in the company as far as I can recall, either."

"Ah, that is interesting information," Holmes said. "Very well. What is the address of this company, if I may ask?"

She gave us a temporary address in Portsmouth, a dock close to where that article said the SS Carnatic had shipwrecked.

"Thank you, Mrs. Warburton," Holmes said. "That will be all. We will, of course, contact you again when more details have come up."

He sat back as Mrs. Warburton left, sinking deep into thought.

"It truly is the first of its kind, I think, Watson," he said abruptly. "I cannot recall ever hearing of an underwater murder before. But, I think, that this case is presented to us is not particularly surprising. If there is a truth I have learned as a detective, it is that man expresses his nature wherever he is, both those men who are virtuous and those men who are not. A crime being committed underwater presents its difficulties, but it is a lance I will gladly break."

And, with that, he fell into silence until lunch was served, at which time he announced we would visit the address Mrs. Warburton had mentioned.

The dock was an odd place, more properly called a wharf. It looked empty and deserted, but in a way that suggested it had just recently been vibrant; everywhere we saw signs of workmen having been in the vicinity but having taken their knapsack and left. 

Everything smelled of sea, salt, and sweat. Here, I thought to myself, was a place where serious labour was done by serious men; the question, then, was if this labour was honest or not.

"Gone for a dive, I suspect," Holmes said, walking over to the waterside. He inspected the mooring, gave a little hum, and looked to the distance. "But ah! Look there, Watson."

I walked up beside him and peered into the distance. "I can see nothing," I confessed.

"A boat is returning, there," he said, and pointed. Still, I could see nothing.

But indeed, he was right; a boat, its engine roaring loudly, soon pulled up to the wharf, and its crew members jumped ashore, setting about securing it with gusto.

"Who might you gents be?" one of the men asked, who jumped from the ship later. He was a big, tough-looking fellow; his bold, dark eyes were glaring us suspiciously from underneath his thick eyebrows. Behind him, the men began hauling their equipment from the boat. I saw helmets, tubes, and all sorts of thick suits, which I presumed to be their diving equipment.

"We're here for Captain Huxley," Holmes said. "Are you he?"

"I am," Huxley answered. "Who's asking?"

Holmes indicated himself and me. "We are journalists for the Daily Gazette," he said, making his voice as cloying and sycophantic as he could.

Huxley snorted. "Piss off, gents," he responded, and turned as if to walk away.

"Even if we make it worth your while?" Holmes asked, offering a sovereign, and Huxley turned back.

"Ah, that's different, then, that is," Huxley said, and he beckoned us to his office on the ship after bellowing some final instructions to the men. Along the way we passed an enormous metal construction which at the time was totally unknown to me, but which I later learned was a diving bell. Its use was apparently to let the men go down to depth with ease.

Huxley's office was a typical captain's cabin, though I must confess this was one of the few times I had actually set foot in one and not merely read about them in a book. It was somewhat cramped, with a large wooden desk located in the middle that was securely bolted to the floor and took up most of the space; several cabinets were built into the wall, all sporting thick locks. Huxley sat himself behind the desk; we were forced to stand, and Huxley made no offer of any sort of seat.

Only a single thing was out of place in the cabin: a golden watch and expensive-looking cufflinks, which lay on the desk as if forgotten.

"What is this about, then?" Huxley asked, taking a bottle from the cabinet and pouring himself some brandy in a filthy glass. As with the seats, he made no offer to share any of it. "The accident, I s'pose?"

"Well, yes," Holmes said. "Could you tell us anything about it, Mr. Huxley?"

"Damned fool business is what it was," Huxley grumbled. "Jack Warburton snagged his rebreather on something. When he noticed, he must've tried to take it out, tore a tube, and drowned."

"I see," said Holmes. "It sounds like a regrettable accident, to be sure."

Huxley grunted in vague affirmation. "I'm out a diver, and I've got to finish the salvage by June. Going to be a hell of a job now."

"Could we see the equipment used by Warburton?" I asked. "Just as a matter of curiosity, you understand."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Huxley said, and I noted his deliberate refusal to give a reason why.

Holmes slipped him another sovereign, and Huxley stood.

"Follow me, gents," he said, heading out of his cabin.

He led us off the ship, to a locked shed nearby. It was here that the equipment was kept; he led us past several grubby suits to the one that had been Warburton's. Whereas the others had been hung inside-out to dry better, Warburton's suit hung from a wooden rack. There were several scratches in it near the neck; in every other way, there was no indication that a man had died in it.

"None of the men want to touch it," he said, spitting on the hardwood floor. "Say it's bad luck, wearing a dead man's clothes. Waste of money, if you ask me."

Holmes inspected the suit carefully, looking at the torn tube and letting his eyes wander the shed.

However, his choice of guise had limited him; there was no reason for a Gazette journalist to inspect the equipment too closely, and Huxley was a paranoid man by nature.

"A final question, captain," Holmes suddenly said. "Are you a diver as well?"

"I am, yes,"" said Huxley, clearly wondering what this had to do with anything.

"Very well, captain," Holmes finally said. "I do believe that will be all, thank you."

"See yourselves out," Huxley responded, and we did; he locked the shed behind us.

On the way back, Holmes looked pensive.

"What's the matter, Holmes?" I asked when we were safely out of earshot.

"I am certain that Huxley murdered Warburton, Watson," he said. "It will, however, be a difficult case to prove."

"But how?" I asked, flabbergasted.

"First, there is the matter of Warburton apparently having snagged his rebreather on something. But there are problems with this story. You recall the shape of the equipment, Watson?"

"I do, yes."

Holmes mimed the general shape of how the helmet would be worn underwater, and how the tubes would connect to it.

"The tubes of the rebreather are located in front, you see," he said. "How could a man snag them on something? If they were located in the back, I could perhaps see them being caught up in some fishing line or perhaps some plant, but not in front."

"Why, yes, now that you mention it," I said, realization dawning. 

"Furthermore, it would be impossible for a man to tear the tube in the manner shown if he was all by himself," Holmes said grimly. Once again, he mimed attempting to tear the tube in such a way as it had been torn on the suit we had seen.

"It does indeed seem implausible," I said. "But it is no proof that Huxley is a murderer."

"As to that, Watson, you will find that the divers always work in pairs, as you can see from the long cords that were wrapped around their arms to keep them tethered to one another. From the documents on Huxley's desk, I have concluded that he was the diver paired with Warburton on that fatal dive."

"Again, that is suggestive," I responded, "But we lack a motive, first of all."

"I may hazard a hypothesis there, Watson," Holmes said. "You saw the golden watch on his desk, yes? Did you perchance read the lettering on its side?"

"I did not," I admitted.

"It was engraved with the motto Acta non verba - which, among other families, was the motto of Lord Woxham."

"You don't mean..." I said, trailing off.

"I do, Watson: he salvaged it from the wreckage, prying it from the cold hands of Lord Woxham himself, I should think. I doubt it was literally so, but certainly in every other sense he looted the corpse. I very much doubt that it has been the first time some relic has disappeared, either. Presumably he will sell the thing to a pawnbroker of some sort; Lloyd was far from the only one of his kind to fence stolen goods."

"But that is graverobbing at its worst!" I cried.

Holmes looked grim. "It is, Watson. And while we may attempt to arrest him for that, at the moment and with the current evidence he will escape the hangman's rope easily. Therein lies the real difficulty of this case: we have no conclusive evidence which points at how Warburton was killed, and can only conjecture at a motive. We merely have circumstantial evidence that he was killed, and that is not enough to satisfy either me or the courts."

"I suppose we have no choice but to head to the Locus," I remarked.

"Quite," said Holmes. "I cannot say that it is impossible to find any other means by which the truth of the murder may be exposed, but they are long and laborious, as even I do not possess the necessary knowledge of diving. Even then it will be his word against mine."

"But what shape will his Locus take?" I asked.

"That, at least, I would have thought to be obvious," Holmes responded. "Dress for cold, wet weather, Watson: we will be heading for Huxley's ship again when we get home, and this time we will find the answers we need. I, meanwhile, will send a telegram to Lestrade, and hope that he is willing to undertake another journey into the Polis."


	17. The Chariot, Part 2

"Evening, gentlemen," said Lestrade, entering the room.

Like me, he had taken Holmes' warning to heart and dressed for wet weather: he had chosen for a pea-jacket that looked well-worn and comfortable, while Holmes and I wore reefer coats. It felt, I must say, distinctly odd to take our coats from the rack while warm spring light filtered through the window from outside.

"Good evening, Lestrade," I said.

"Are we all ready to leave, gentlemen?" Holmes asked, and with our assent he murmured "Hanged Man".

Holmes' Locus was just as we had left it, though of course ever since we had received that odd key from Igor a door had appeared in it, made from a deep blue, and though it seemed to lead into nothing but empty space both Holmes and I had been able to go through it to that odd hansom once more.

I had done so to give Agatha the ice-cream I had promised her; Holmes, however, had questioned Igor on some minor points, hoping to find out more details on the culprit. Yet Igor said very little that led to any actionable evidence, and what little he did say Holmes did not bother repeating, so that I was left no more enlightened than I had been.

The addition of Lestrade, while welcome, also proved to not progress the investigation. However, it necessitated a pact not to go to the Polis without all three of us consenting completely to the excursion. We three were presumably the last, and the only, line of defense against the mysterious interloper. If by some ill fortune one of us fell to a Guardian or was ambushed by the interloper, then the entire world would suffer from it.

In any case, we set out for the Locus. Holmes led us through the streets of the Polis without altogether too much fanfare, and Lestrade and I hung back to discuss the latest case.

"I see you've taken to carrying your police baton," I said to him. Holmes noticed our conversation, but did not join it.

"Well, yes," said he, drawing it from its sheathe on his hip. "It's a poor substitute for George's sword, but it felt distinctly odd to both have and not have a weapon in my hands."

"I understand what you mean," I responded. "It's a little different for me, however; I have no experience wielding a spear, and nothing which might serve as a substitute either. Not to mention, of course, that I cannot carry around a spear everywhere."

"It would indeed be a queer sight," Lestrade said, chuckling.

"Quite," I said, allowing myself a smile.

"This time it's a ship, eh?" Lestrade asked, switching the track of our conversation. "I suppose the Guardian will take the form of the captain, then?"

"That is my theory, yes," I responded.

Lestrade rubbed his hands. "Been a while since I've been on a ship, personally." 

He suddenly looked somewhat sheepish. "You, er, wouldn't happen to have anything for sea sickness, doctor?"

"No, I'm afraid that I didn't think of that, actually," I admitted. "I rather hope that the mental aspect will cancel that out, to be entirely honest."

Holmes stopped in front of one particular building. "We've arrived," he said.

Huxley's Locus was a replica of what must have been his house in the real world, although more sizable. I had, admittedly, half expected it to have been his ship outright, but I felt sure that its insides would more accurately reflect the situation.

A great storm-cloud drifted above the house; low as it hung, it was even possible to see sparks of lightning dance on its surface. The sight was threatening, but a worried look at Holmes revealed that he, at least, was perfectly relaxed.

He caught my gaze and smiled. "I would only be worried when the lightning is in the process of hitting, Watson," said he. "If it's yet to fall then not everything is lost for Huxley, I believe."

And, without further ado, he pushed open the door and we stepped through.

We found ourselves in a cold, wet place, lighted only by a few candles - the hold of the ship, I wagered. Around us were several barrels filled with unidentifiable liquids. Lestrade experimentally shifted one of them aside, and there bolted to the floor we saw metal shackles spread around in the shape of an adult man. The implication for Huxley's workmen was obvious.

"You don't think he - " Lestrade began, but Holmes shushed him.

"I don't think he is an actual slaver, Lestrade," Holmes whispered. "A slave-driver, however? That I do believe. The state of the divers' suits was highly suggestive, as were the motions with which they unloaded their apparel."

He held up a hand and motioned us forward. As one, we crept toward the door, on our guards despite hearing nothing which might arouse our suspicions.

Holmes opened the door, and Lestrade and I burst forward into a small corridor, which was patrolled by a single shadow.

Its form was bizarre: it had clearly been based upon the men who worked for Huxley, but its proportions were exaggerated. An outsized diving helmet, twice the size of a normal human head, rested upon its shoulders; a different light shone behind every glass window into the helmet's interiors, surrounded by inky black water.

It blinked as it saw us head forward, then shambled at us, grabbing at one of the leaden weights secured around its belt and throwing it at me.

I ducked beneath its attack and darted forward, Llud surging into being behind me. Our experience of the Butcher's lackeys absorbing Holmes' wind had taught us to be mindful of potential elemental connections. As such, I avoided using Llud's ice spells and simply tried to ram its spear through the glass.

Unfortunately, at that time, the entire ship rocked as if in the grip of some enormous hand, and the thrust did not have the effect I desired, merely leaving a deep gouge into the glass and leaving the helmet itself unscarred. I had overextended, and I lost my balance as punishment, falling onto the floor.

The creature screeched, retaining its balance unlike Lestrade and I. Holmes, however, had clearly recognized that the ship might rock, and with a mighty crack a bullet tore through the glass plate.

The shadow's lights blinked out, all at the same time, and it fell backwards, its head thumping against the floor, dead.

Lestrade helped me up, patting me on the back and looking no more than a little green. "Starting to regret this whole adventure, frankly," he said, attempting to chuckle.

"Come now, Lestrade," Holmes chided him. "We've barely begun. Remember, gentlemen, our target is the captain's cabin."

We encountered several more shadows along the way, and in addition nearly fell over several times by the ship rocking as if caught in a storm. There was no pattern which we could discern to the rocking, nothing which could 

It was on the tail end of another such jolt that we found the captain's cabin. The door was locked, however, and we could not force the door open.

"We'll have to go look for the Guardian after all," I said. "I presume it's got the key we need."

"Indeed," Holmes said. "However, since it's not in its cabin, then I presume we will have to look for it on deck."

And, indeed, Holmes was right: we found the Captain standing on deck, bellowing orders to the shadows that were scrambling around.

The Captain was a tall man-like figure, proud and overbearing. It was not the piratical figure I had unconsciously expected, instead seeming more like a naval commander like Britain's very own Sir Nelson or Sir Drake, a fully-fledged admiral - odd as it was to see one on such a dinghy sloop such as this ship. To its breast were pinned several mock-medals, which were presumably the relics Huxley had snatched from the drowned dead. On its belt, I saw the key which we needed.

The storm we had seen float above the Locus outside was reflected in full force now that we were outside and had a clear view of the sky, which was so dark as to suggest the complete absence of any celestial body whatsoever. The only source of light came from the lanterns which had been placed haphazardly about the deck and the lightning that crackled overhead, ready to strike at any time.

In preparation for the inevitable lightning-strikes, the shadows which crewed the ship were scurrying about, attending to all sorts of minor tasks. I saw one attempting ineffectually to climb the ropes to stow the sails, but keep falling down, its eyes like searchlights dimming every time more and more.

All around me, I saw desperate measures being taken, and the Captain yelling out task after task, yet never lifting a hand himself.

"You are ready, gentlemen, to confront the Captain?" Holmes asked.

"I am," Lestrade confirmed to my side, gripping at his police baton.

"Is there no way we might avoid violence, Holmes?" I asked.

"Perhaps," he allowed. "However, there are a great number of shadows scattered about. Dealing with them with proper warning is difficult, to be sure, but doable. I have much less faith in our chances should we first attempt to negotiate and allow them to prepare themselves for whatever we may do."

"Then I am ready," I said, and we stepped forward as one, our alter-egos surging into being behind us.

The Captain noticed us immediately. "Goddamned scoundrels!" he cried, the relics on his chest bouncing about as he gesticulated. "I've already killed one thieving swine this voyage and God help me I'll gladly serve the sea another helping! At arms, men!"

"Magaru!" Holmes cried in response, lifting the shadows off their feet and slamming them back into the deck. While the damage to most shadows was obvious, it was not at a level where it would impede their capacity for harm, as was soon proven by the hail of lead weights which were thrown at us.

Some struck the deck behind us, some had been thrown without enough force and clattered to a halt at our feet; a couple were truly dangerous, and Lestrade and I worked to bat them from the air with our weapons.

"Ascalon!" Lestrade shouted when he had a moment to do so, and from George's sword a glorious line of light erupted that tore into the shadows it caught and reduced them to nothing. However, the line could only cut a few at a time, and it was clear that Lestrade could not throw the lines about whenever he wished.

He had, however, managed to clear a way to the Captain, who still stood there, impassive and haughty.

I charged forwards, Llud's spear extended in a perfect thrust, but at the last moment the Captain batted it aside with a flick of a sword that he produced out of seemingly nowhere. Its blade was rusted, its handle nicked and pockmarked, but despite that it forced Llud's spear aside easily.

At that moment, the boat was rocked massively once more, a wave crashing into the side of the ship. Seawater spilled over onto the deck, and I was thrown away from the Captain.

"Garu!" Holmes cried, pointing at the Captain, but our foe merely grunted in pain and nothing more.

It made a grabbing motion with its free hand, as if seizing something in the air, and the seawater behind it swirled around its feet, rising up into a transparent orb-like barrier that shuddered and quaked even as the Captain held it together. Lestrade charged at it, but neither his baton nor George's sword were able to penetrate the barrier.

"Watson, watch out!" Lestrade cried, as another lead weight was launched itself at my head.

I dove to the side, narrowly avoiding the weight hitting my face, and rolled behind some cover.

An idea had, however, come to me, which was to use the Captain's new strategy against it.

"Bufu!" I cried, poking my face out from the barrel I had hidden behind, and the water bubble grew calmer, but not calm enough.

I needed more power, and I searched for it deep within. I did not have Holmes' talent for changing a spell to target every foe at once, but I didn't need that; what I needed now was strength, and my Arcana lent me this above all else.

"Bufula!" I cried, the word welling up from some deeper contact between Llud and me, and the bubble froze over entirely.

The Captain bellowed, finally moved into frenzied action; it slashed at the ice, punching and kicking at it with desperate strength, but with so limited a space to work with, it only managed to make several cracks in it.

"Now, Lestrade," Holmes cried, and while I was still recovering from casting that more powerful spell for the first time, he and Lestrade took advantage of the Captain's paralysis to attack it with all their might.

They drove the Captain back, shattering the ice around it but leaving it no time to exploit any gap in their attacks. Finally it was driven to the very edge of the deck, and it was clear that it had reached its limits.

"Goddamn you landlubbers!" the Captain shouted, defiant to the end, and it threw its sword down onto the deck. Then, with slow, deliberate grace, it tried to fall backwards, into the sea.

"Quick, Watson, seize it!" Holmes cried, and together we hauled it back onto the deck, huffing at its unexpected weight.

When it was finally subdued, laying insensate upon the deck, Holmes took its key, and we moved once more back to the captain's cabin. We encountered no more shadows along the way, fortunately. Presumably they had faded together with the fighting will of their leader.

The key fit the keyhole perfectly, and with a mere push to the door we were inside.

The Captain's cabin was almost a perfect recreation of the same location in the real world, with an important difference: the locked cabinets made of sturdy wood were now instead made of glass, so that instead of hiding their contents they were proudly displayed.

With equal parts admiration for the objets d'art displayed in these cabinets and disgust for the means by which they must surely have been obtained, I looked at them all, one by one. There was, of course, the watch of Lord Woxham, and his cufflinks; there were other heirlooms that I could not recognize as of being from a particular person, such as necklaces and jewels.

There was, however, a single cabinet I could not make sense of: it displayed in its middle a canister, such as might be found on the back of a diver. Holmes looked at it with triumph clear in his gaze; I, however, could only look at in bemusement.

"Is it part of Huxley's equipment?" Lestrade asked of Holmes.

But he shook his head in response. "No, I do not think so," he said. "Huxley is a taller man than Warburton, to judge by his suit. If this was Huxley's, then the straps would be too low for him. Therefore, I conclude it is not his, but instead Warburton's."

"What a macabre trophy," I said.

"Indeed," said he, smiling, "but exactly what we needed, as it turns out."

"How so?" Lestrade asked, echoing my befuddlement.

"If you read the inscription, it mentions the canister is filled with carbon monoxide. That is what truly caused Warburton's death, gentlemen."

"What exactly is carbon monoxide?" Lestrade asked.

"It is a chemical gas, Lestrade, famous for its death-dealing properties. It is odorless, tasteless, colorless; for this, it has been known as the silent killer. Some years ago, in Paris, an entire family was killed when the suicidal parents wished to spare their children what they called 'undue suffering' - pure lunacy, of course."

"I thought that Warburton died by drowning," I said. "How could have he died by carbon monoxide poisoning?"

"Ah, there is the rub!" Holmes said. "It is the natural thought to have, of course. But it is simply impossible."

"Impossible how?" Lestrade demanded. "The man was, what, 20 meters under water, at least, and his tubes had been torn!"

"True," said Holmes, clearly enjoying himself. "But still, I maintain that he did not drown. By the time the tube had been torn, Warburton was already irrevocably dead."

Lestrade and I stared at Holmes, agog.

"Here is a quick question, gentlemen. When a man comes at you with a knife, what do you do?" Holmes asked. "Surely you do not sit there and let him cut you?"

"Of course not," said I, "but I fail to see what -"

"You see, Warburton's tube had been cut, but other than that there had been very little signs of a struggle that I could see on his suit, no other cuts which had been made as the men fought over the knife; the cut in the tube had been precise, measured, even methodical. I wondered what sort of man would let such a thing happen to him, in a situation already as dangerous as being so deep underwater. Frankly, it seemed impossible. The solution then came to me, with the help of a little imagination: Warburton must have already been dead when the cut was made.

The question, then, was when either event happened. Was Warburton's corpse loaded into his suit and made to drown? It hardly seems credible that none of the men, superstitious as they are, said anything. Perhaps the cut was made above water, but it is undoubtedly a fact that Warburton's lungs showed all the symptoms of drowning. Due to the difficulty of replacing the helmet after it has been taken off we can safely conclude that the cut happened underwater."

"I see," I said, though my head was spinning with this new revelation. "But what role did that canister play?"

"Simple enough, Watson," Holmes said. "The carbon monoxide was mixed in with the oxygen in the canister by Huxley, and because of that Huxley merely needed to wait until Warburton had slowly died of the poison he was breathing in. The water he would let in by cutting the tube would ensure that Warburton was dead and, in addition, wash away most of the evidence of Warburton's true method of death, far beyond the local police coroner's willingness to investigate."

"That's monstrous," I said, shocked to the extreme.

"And yet quite ingenious," Holmes said, a rare note of praise in his voice. "I should very much congratulate Huxley on his fascinating mind; it is rare I am presented with a foe of such cunning."

"Hold on, Holmes," said Lestrade. "That's all very well, but how will we prove it? The courts won't merely take your word for it, sterling as your reputation may be."

"And we shall have our proof thanks to this very canister, Lestrade. We are fortunate that his paranoid nature has given him a tendency to hoard his stuff; when I looked about the shed yesterday, I spied it lying about, though I was not wholly convinced of its true meaning then. If we grab it, a simple chemical test will serve as sufficient proof."

Holmes stood, looking at the canister with the satisfaction of a job well done in his eyes. "But I think it is time we leave the Polis, gentlemen. Our time for staying here is nearly up."

Subdued, Lestrade and I followed him out of the ship, back into the streets of the Polis, where we marched back home under the watchful eyes of those shadowy lanterns.

The next morning, we set out for Portsmouth once more, this time accompanied by a search warrant and Lestrade's promise that a local constable and his men would be waiting for us at the station.

We stormed the wharf just as the men were loading their equipment once more, the policemen behind us fanning out to cover the entire premise and to ensure that no men could make a getaway. Huxley turned white as a sheet when he saw us arrive and ran for the shed, but was quickly intercepted.

With leisure that seemed ill-fitting to the situation at present, Holmes strolled to the shed and opened it with a skeleton key he had been given by the constabulary. Inside, we found it as we had left it two days before; carefully combing the place, however, we found that same canister we had seen in the Locus.

Huxley gave a muffled cry when he saw us leave with it, and his face turned every color of the rainbow, emotions on wide display; hate, despair, and humiliation all raged, especially when the policemen who'd boarded the ship returned with the stolen trinkets.

But then Holmes, taking a lighter from one of the men, opened the canister and lit a light at a safe distance above it; the flame immediately turned a bright blue, indicating strongly the presence of carbon monoxide, and Huxley's case was all but over.


	18. Temperance, Part 1

It was the week after Huxley's arrest, placing this incident near the beginning of May; the fine April weather had faded away abruptly, and in its place came a constant succession of overcast or rainy days.

On the evening of one particular such day, Holmes had invited Lestrade and I over to a particular public house.

The idea, said Holmes, was that it was meant as a belated celebration of Lestrade's awakening, as well as to commemorate his full participation in a Locus intervention. It had originally been planned to take place before Huxley's case, but as Lestrade had been busy with the fallout from Armstrong's capture or Holmes had been wrapped up in some minor other case, their schedules had not agreed.

In any case, he led us to the Tap and Spile, a public house located in what I confess to be one of London's seedier alleys, in so far as that means anything nowadays. I hurried along, alone. My consultations had run somewhat late, and I was sure Holmes and Lestrade must have already arrived.

I was right in thinking so; as I pushed open the door to the public house, the cheerful noise oft associated with an inn blasted me in the face, and I saw Holmes look up from his conversation with Lestrade and wave at me.

I passed several patrons as I hurried over, in differing states of drunkenness. Some were swaying on their seats as they argued some minor matter with their companions, others were digging into hearty meals alone, and several were sat at the bar counter, consuming beer at prodigious rates.

Though I tried not to be judgmental, the clientele of this public house seemed to me to be of a rough-and-tumble sort. Several cabins were available for patrons who wished for some more secrecy, as these cabins were boxed in by wooden partitions too tall for any man to look over. It was, in fact, one of these cabins I was heading for.

"Good to see you, Watson," said Holmes, sitting down once more just as I arrived. "Have you eaten yet? I'd quite recommend the seafood."

"I have not eaten, as a matter of fact," I said, sitting next to him and waving down a waitress to order the fish and chips.

Holmes and Lestrade, I saw, must have already eaten; their plates were empty, their forks and knives arranged to let the staff know they could take the plates away.

As I ate, I listened to Holmes and Lestrade make idle conversation, talking about how the case against Huxley was going and throwing in the occasional reference to previous cases they had worked on, some of which I knew of, and interjected some comments myself.

Holmes was right in recommending the seafood, however; the fish was excellent, 

I finished my dinner just in time for the conversation to switch to the topic of the Loci - something we had not previously dared to discuss in public, always keeping our discussions locked within the confines of 221B.

Holmes saw my worried look and laughed. "Don't worry, Watson," said he, "as long as we keep our voices to a reasonable volume then I have no fear that we will be overheard. In fact there was once a case that relied on exactly this fact - you remember, Lestrade, the case of the three-handed widow?"

"Of course," said Lestrade, somewhat more morosely than Holmes. "It very nearly sank my career."

"Come now, Lestrade," said Holmes. "Let us not be so dramatic. I promised you would have your crook and indeed, you had her soon enough. I might share the story with you another day, Watson; it was before you and I met, when I had an office in Montague Street. I suppose it is the sort of thing you love to publish."

I restrained myself from a snide remark that was on the tip of my tongue. "Very well," I said, "I'll look forward to it. But you were saying?"

"I was saying," Lestrade continued, "that I wondered at the sheer size of the ship in Huxley's mind."

"Is it so odd?" I said. "Armstrong's Locus was also large."

"That's the thing, though," said Lestrade. "I just wonder where the boundaries lie. Who's to say that perhaps we won't find someone with a Locus the size of the entire city?"

"That seems a little silly," I said, though I could not find any particular arguments against it.

"It does seem possible," Holmes said, contradicting me immediately. "You are, of course, forgiven for not realizing this, Lestrade, but there is a certain pattern which is connected to the Loci so far."

"There is?" I asked.

"When associated with a specific place, the surroundings grow larger and larger, even allowing for multiple minor manifestations of the Guardian - shadows, as we've taken to calling them. There was of course Atkinson and his clinic, Lloyd and his pawnbroker's, and now Huxley and his ship."

"Morrison and Armstrong weren't associated with physical places, though," I said. "More the idea of places, perhaps, but you must admit that that's a stretch."

"And yet I think that there is a definite pattern, Watson, that associating one place with one's inner self allows for a larger Locus. What other effects it gives I cannot say. In any case, if we consider the association theory to be true then you must admit it is possible for all of London to be a Locus."

"Hold on," said Lestrade, returning to an earlier point. "Is that what happened to Lloyd?"

"Oh," said I, it just now dawning on me that we had never gotten around to telling Lestrade what had actually happened with Lloyd.

To not repeat myself unduly I shall simply state that I summarized the events of Lloyd's case, Lestrade proving to be a decent enough audience in the telling. I substituted Lord Feverstone's name for some other noble's name, of course; we had sworn an oath of secrecy with regards to that, and if Lestrade noticed he was so polite as not to make mention of it.

When I had finished with the inevitable result of Lloyd's arrest, Lestrade yawned hugely, then checked his watch and started in shock.

"It's this late already," he said. "Sadly, gents, I've got an early day tomorrow, so I'll be taking my leave now."

"If you must," I said. "We'll be picking up your tab, remember, so don't worry about that."

"Appreciate it, doctor," said Lestrade, and he took his coat from his chair and slung it over his shoulders. "See you around, eh?"

"See you around," I confirmed, and after a final handshake he left.

"I suppose we'll be heading back soon as well then, Watson?" Holmes asked.

I hesitated. "I do have a question first, if you don't mind."

"Go ahead," Holmes said, waving his hand idly. "Though I suspect I know what you'll be asking, of course."

"Yes, well," I said, "Was it really necessary to head to Huxley's Locus?"

"Why do you think it was not, Watson?" he responded. Judging by his expression, I suppose it was indeed the question he had asked.

"Firstly, I do think that you could have easily found out about Huxley's use of carbon monoxide without use of the Polis. Second, your insistence on letting Lestrade and I take point."

"Ah," Holmes said, chuckling, "those reasons are quite compelling indeed. Allow me to respond, if I may. As to your first reason, yes, I could have found out about it; however, it would have probably involved repeated attempts to puzzle out which of the equipment was poisoned and, for that matter, how. I had considered, before entering the Locus, that instead of the air supply, the helmet would be filled with some paralyzing toxin, for example. There are many more ways the murder might have happened, as well, some seeming quite ludicrous even to me."

"But you admit that your use of the Locus was somewhat unnecessary?"

Holmes wagged his finger. "It was perhaps unnecessary, yes, but it was most definitely expeditious. I cannot say that it was entirely safe, but then I believe that my career is the proof that perhaps nothing is truly ever safe.

"As to your second reason, is it so unusual that you and Lestrade are the vanguard?" he asked. "Your alter-egos are more noticeably attuned to physical combat than mine is, sharp though its horns may seem."

"But Holmes, you're an excellent fighter," I pointed out. "How could you be any less apt at physical combat? I can't say I've had a tenth of the bouts of fisticuffs you seem to have had."

"While that is true, Watson, you forget that in the Locus everything revolves around the mind. I suspect that it is not physical attributes which are the most important, but the mental."

"How does that explain anything, though?"

"Allow me to put it this way. Both you and Lestrade have minds that are straight as arrows. You are focused on singular trains of thought, you keep your own counsel in all matters."

"Whereas you," said I, "have a mind that - shall we say - is more inclined to explore all different paths before reaching a conclusion."

"Perhaps not how I would have described it," Holmes said, "but I believe that is the gist of it, yes. As a result, your alter-egos are direct and to the point, just as you are, while mine is more inclined to casting spells and searching for others."

"That may be the case," I said, "but nevertheless, I wonder if our more direct approach is truly the only reason."

"Letting Lestrade gain some experience was part of the reason we went, yes," Holmes admitted, then leaned forward. "Why are you so curious about this, however?"

"I just think it's not proper to invade minds on anything less than the steadiest basis," I said.

"And you think that I committed some wrong in letting us head to Huxley's Locus?" he asked, clearly skeptical.

"Perhaps not Huxley's case," I allowed. "But I am worried that perhaps there will be other cases, where the boundaries are not so rigidly defined."

"You are, I think, overly attached to the idea of privacy, Watson," said he. "You have seen me observe many people, and deduce details which they thought hidden, have you not?"

"Many times," I said. "But I know what you're attempting to drive at, and that is different. There is nothing the common man may do against his Locus being invaded, no means he can really employ in his defense."

"There are the Guardians," Holmes pointed out.

"Are there?" I asked. "Certainly they pose no issue to the interloper, with how they have planted the Shards with apparent ease."

"And there, I think, we come to the heart of the matter. Is that not truly what has you worried?" he responded. "You think that perhaps we are becoming similar to the interloper, in interfering with the Loci?"

"It is a significant part of my worries, yes," I admitted. "It is difficult enough sometimes to know when we are doing right in this world; to have to worry about the ethics about our actions in another world is something of a burden.

"And I do know you have little truck with these things," I continued. "You have always had a certain element of admiration for the greatest criminal minds, Holmes, regardless of the atrocities they commit."

Wherever the conversation might have gone from there was interrupted by a shout which originated from within the public house.

I looked about me wildly, noticing now for the first time that the room had steadily emptied over the hours; there were only a few customers left now, including us, and they seemed to be heavy drinkers, regular customers, or both.

"There, I believe, Watson," said Holmes, pointing at a man sitting alone at a table, well into his cups. He sat out in the open, his despair clear for all to see - though whether or not he was usually so emotional a man without being drunk, I could not begin to guess.

The drunkard was dressed in what I assumed to be his work clothes still: a vest with some stains upon it, a shirt buttoned shabbily. His hair was short-cropped and brown, though clearly it had grown some time since the last barber's attentions had been applied to it. In short, he was the very picture a man who found himself too informal for the formal wear required of him.

"What is he shouting about?" I asked. 

"I'm not sure," Holmes admitted. "I do know, however, that going by the stains on his shirt he is a clerk of some description."

"Well," I said, standing up, "Let's see what's the matter, then."

"If you insist," said Holmes, chuckling, and together we went to investigate.

But as we neared, the man started arguing with a passing waitress, who was all too happy when we distracted him enough she could go about her way. Holmes' nose wrinkled at the heavy scent of liquor which all but poured from the drunkard, but he pressed on ahead anyhow.

"Come now, young man," he said, affecting a calm, fatherly tone of voice. "Calm down."

"Who are you?" the man asked blearily, his gaze focused on Holmes despite his head wobbling.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," said he, "This is my colleague, doctor Watson. And you are, sir?"

"My name's Timothy Bell," the drunkard replied, unconscious politeness showing itself through his drunken haze.

"And what exactly is the matter?" Holmes asked gently, making some space for himself and me at the table by clearing away some of the bottles.

I sat down next to him, content to let him take the lead in calming Bell down, though I did order some water for the three of us. It would do him better than more booze, at least.

However, what Bell said next caught me off guard all the same.

"I've killed a man," he cried, anger giving way to despair, the tears rolling down his cheeks without restraint. "And the worst part is, no one'll ever punish me for it!"


	19. Temperance, Part 2

I remember Holmes as once saying that his position as a consulting detective afforded him a certain perspective, a way of looking at things, from which he had neither the ability nor the desire to desist. He was a detective, now and always.

It was the logical consequence of that saying, I suppose, that cases found him (and, by extension, me) wherever he went.

Holmes shook his head, and reached out for the young man's shoulder, to give it a comforting pat.

Caught in the throes of his despair, however, Bell wouldn't respond to whichever query Holmes posed him; questions about where he worked were ignored entirely, and if we inquired as to the details of his supposed crime, we were met with more bawling.

At length, Holmes could not find anything new about the case. He and I shared a look, and I pulled him to the side.

"Are you sure we can't just leave him to sober up?" I asked. "Surely tomorrow morning, he'll be somewhat more coherent."

"That would indeed be the best option," said Holmes, "but it is infeasible for several reasons."

"Those being?"

"First, that we should first get him to a place where he can sleep off his drunken haze. I have not been able to have him mention an address so far - not that of his home, not that of his workplace. Will we take him to 221B Baker Street, then? No, that would not be a good idea either; he would be seized with panic, coming to in our sitting room and finding himself somewhere he has never been before. Should we let him take a cot in a cell, then? That would be even worse; not only would he wake up in jail, he might even tell the police about his supposed crime.

What do we do then, Watson? I can only think that we must find a way to deal with this now, before Bell drinks himself to death or gets himself into more trouble. But Bell is unwilling, or unable, to speak; nonetheless, we must find a way to get him to talk."

"You are not suggesting - " I said.

"I am," Holmes confirmed. "We will head to his Locus right away, and there attempt to set right his wayward mind."

"Is that not dangerous?" I asked. "Frankly, I don't think his Locus will be at all accessible at the moment."

Holmes shook his head. "It undoubtedly will be dangerous, yes. Yet what other option do we have? Our court system is not so merciful or so great that it will forgive a confession to murder, Watson, even one made in so foolish a situation."

"But do we have time to head back to Baker Street?"

"We do not have that time, no," said Holmes, "but neither do we need it. I propose that we head out for a smoke - or that, at least, is what we will tell the barmaid - take a quick trip to the Locus, and return after we have wrestled Bell out of the clutches of that black abyss we call despair.

In fact, Watson," he continued, "I do think this incident, unfortunately timed though it may be, should resolve some of your worries. If we can use the Polis to return some vestige of reason to Bell, then will that not assuage your worries that we are using it as a force for good?"

"Yes, that is indeed true," I finally acquiesced. "Let's head out, then."

We went out, where Holmes dug his card from his pocket. He had gotten into the habit of carrying it everywhere, it seemed; I myself had left mine at home. A few steps from the front door of the pub found us in the alley I had passed through hours before, and the fading of the daylight had done no wonders for its appearance. Trash was scattered around the alley and grime clung to the cobblestone.

"Hanged Man," Holmes murmured, after a final check that there was no one around.

The transition deposited us once more in Holmes' Locus as always; distance in the real world seemed to have no bearing on distance in the Polis, at least. We set out immediately in the direction Holmes indicated, and made considerable haste.

Before long we arrived before a house rocked by heavy weather, the hail having shattered one of its windows and the front of the house having taken a beating already.

"Quickly now, Watson," Holmes said, and pushed open the door.

Oddly enough we found ourselves in a public house much like the one we had just left - though changed as it was, it was at first hard to tell.

Instead of a large space where tables had been laid out surrounded by chairs next to them, some tables were strewn about the room as if a giant had picked them up and flung them around. Some lay on their side, forming impromptu walls and ramparts; the chairs, too, were thrown haphazardly about the room. The warm atmosphere which had suffused the room while we had eaten had been torn away by the wind and the hail, tearing through that same broken window we had seen outside.

It was, all in all, a ghastly atmosphere, giving the impression of a place to which had been laid waste, so much so that it was difficult to imagine anyone living here.

We stepped forwards cautiously, as was our custom. However, a flash of movement caught my eye, and I hastily prepared myself for combat.

No foe charged at us, however, and after a moment I relaxed my caution.

"What was that?" I asked Holmes, who was intently scanning the room with his eyes. "The Guardian, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," said he, pensive. "Yet I should think it would have approached us, not fled."

"Fled?" I inquired.

"Yes, Watson, fled," he responded. "It left when we arrived, rushing through to the space behind those two upturned tables. Shall we head after it?"

"Very well," I said, and we set off in pursuit.

We walked through that same space as that odd shadow I had only chanced to observe in the corner of my eye, but found it entirely empty. A single door, however, had been concealed behind the tables, through which I presumed the shadow had ducked in its mad flight.

Beyond the door, however, we found merely another room like the one we had entered from. In fact, we saw that same door through which we had entered, markedly different from the one we had just passed through, and we heard and all but felt the wind surge through that broken window. I saw another flash of movement, heading in an entirely different direction.

"How is this possible?" I asked. "Geographically this makes not the slightest sense! We left through that door and entered through this one!"

"Hold on, Watson," said Holmes, walking to the door we had just come from and heading through it. He appeared at the other side of the room, where we had first entered that very same door.

"Ah," said he, smiling. "A puzzle of sorts, I see. How delightful!"

"We are on a time limit, Holmes," I reminded him, knowing his tendency to be caught up in his investigation.

"Yes, yes, quite," said he, thoroughly distracted. Taking from his pocket a piece of chalk he marked the door with a big white X mark, the better to show us that we had already passed through it.

"Let us investigate the other doors as well, Watson," he said, and we went around the room, discovering several more doors in the process. Each led to its opposite at the other side, and Holmes marked them one by one.

After four pairs of doors, we had marked them all with a big X, yet none led us away from that room. A quick check on my part revealed that the door outwards still led to the street, at least, which did much to reassure me.

Holmes stood in the middle of the room, thinking deeply.

"What do we do now, Holmes?" I asked. "I can't see any way to proceed, despite that damned shadow taunting us."

He started at my words, realization flashing across his face.

"Of course," he said. "Of course! Thank you, Watson, for giving me the hint to this little puzzle. You cannot see, and that is the very point of it!"

He rushed over to where we had seen that first flash of movement, next to an upturned table. Heaving at it he pulled it to its side, revealing a trapdoor set into the floor.

"I really should have thought of this sooner," he said, looking at the trapdoor with some annoyance. "But in any case, let us proceed once more into the breach, eh?"

We descended the ladder into that dark basement we had uncovered. A single light illuminated the cramped room we arrived into, allowing us to barely identify it as a liquor storage. The smell of mold and brackish water, both spread in puddles upon the floor, made itself known to us. The room was only so wide that Holmes and I could at best stand side by side.

Also in the room was a young boy, who I could immediately recognize as the one who had been fleeing from us.

"Stay away!" the boy cried, hiding his face from us. From the hair and his general build, however, I suspected I could recognize a younger Bell in him. From the hand he held over his head, something caught the light, and I recognized that a Fool's Shard had been embedded there.

"Is this the Guardian?" I asked, doubt creeping into my voice. "It looks so puerile. I do not think I could earnestly face it in combat, Holmes."

"You are in luck, then, Watson," he responded with grim humour, and as I looked over I saw that he faced not the boy but the darkness behind us.

The tendrils of dark mold which had lain dormant suddenly twitched as I looked at them, transforming into lances of shadow that speared at Holmes.

He fended them off, however, by crying "Magarula!", the strengthened gust of wind blowing the tendrils away from their fatal course.

"What on earth is that?" I asked, horrified. I could not see what it was that we were facing, shrouded as it was in darkness.

"It is, I think, the thing which has held Bell within its grasp and drove him to seek succor in liquor, Watson," he said, retreating to stand under the only lantern that illuminated the cellar. "It must be his despair."

"My god," I said. "You mean that his madness comes from this thing?"

"Exactly," Holmes responded. "Therefore, if we kill this thing then I should wager some measure of reason should be restored to him."

Our conversation was interrupted by another tendril tearing past Holmes' head and burying itself into the wall. I attempted to cut into it, but the two halves of the tendril continued to move as if of their own accord.

"Easier said then done," I said, then concentrated. "Bufu!"

But the ice spell had just as much an effect as Llud's spear - that is to say, very little to almost none at all.

We were steadily driven back from that point onwards, as the tendrils struck with increasing savagery and precision. I accumulated a connection of scrapes and cuts wherever the tendril flashed past, roughed up by the mold's attacks, which also drained my will to continue fighting.

The Boy, meanwhile, was sitting in his corner, shuddering and crying. I sympathized with its plight, and wondered how long already it had lain here, hiding from the monstrous mold.

"Holmes, what on earth do we do?" I cried, increasingly desperate.

But Holmes gave no answer, his concentration upon our foe.

Finally I stumbled, falling over one of the tendrils that had snuck behind my ankle, and fell squarely under the light of that one lantern.

No more tendrils appeared, however, to capitalize on my stumble.

"Holmes!" I shouted, realizing the most obvious cause of this. "The mold can't deal with the light!"

Holmes' expression became stony and resolute, and he retreated underneath the lantern as I had.

But the mold, instead of retreating, focused its attentions once more on attacking the Boy; tendrils flashed by, inflicting cuts and bruises all over its body.

"Watson," said Holmes, panting, "Grab the Boy, and head up the ladder. I'll guard you as you climb."

"But how about you?" I asked.

"I have a plan," he said. "Trust me."

I could make no argument against that, for trust him I did, and I charged at the boy, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him to the ladder. He cried and struggled, but he was weaker by far than I, and so we arrived in short order.

With the boy under my arm, I bore his weight and climbed up the ladder. Cumbersome as the task was, however, we made ill haste, and several more tendrils tore at us, striking me or the ladder. Only by Holmes stepping from the protective light of the lantern were we spared the worst of its attentions.

As to Holmes, he grabbed something from the floor, and rushed up, almost jumping up it in his haste. I helped him out of the trapdoor just as a tendril struck past where his heart had been, and it was with relief and fear that we stood there, panting.

"What now?" I asked, for Holmes had shared no more of this mysterious plan of his.

"Now, Watson, we will play God," said Holmes, with grim humour, and he took the thing he had found in the cellar from his pocket where he had stashed it.  
It was a bottle of liquor, though I could not identify which it was, whether beer, wine, or some other spirit. In addition he took several other things from around the room: a grimy table cloth that had once laid atop one of the upturned tables, and a packet of matches.

He smashed open the bottle's neck, wrapped the tablecloth around it, and lit the bottle on fire with a match.

"Let there by light," said Holmes, and he dropped his improvised firebomb into the cellar.

From it erupted such screeches as I had never before heard, such immense heat as I had never before felt, as the other bottles in the cellar, shattered by the mold, also caught on fire. The roar of the fire which erupted very nearly threw us off our feet, affecting me especially; Holmes stood there coolly, as he watched the mold die.

The Boy gave a shout, betraying its complex emotions; horror, relief, and joy, and more, all mixed together.

Holmes gestured at me to come closer, and I did.

"We cannot leave this fire burning forever, Watson," said he. "Help me douse it; who knows what consequences there might be for Bell's mind otherwise."

I rained ice spell after ice spell on the cellar until I could cast no more, and finally the fire Holmes had started began to die out. Neither of us dared to enter the cellar again and confirm that the Mold was well and truly dead - it was unlikely it ever would truly be, I thought.

But in any case we had wrestled Bell back from the very brink of his Guardian being consumed by this embodiment of his despair, and after cutting the Fool's Shard from the Boy and healing him for his troubles, we left through that same door we had entered through.

It led us to the streets of the Polis, and to my amazement I saw that the weather which had rocked Bell's Locus with its fury had begun to milden, the window which had been shattered starting to recover. Shards of glass flew up as if under their own power, slotting back neatly into place. Cracks were still visible, and perhaps would forever remain so, but the weather would be kept out for now.

Satisfied with our task, we returned to the Inn, finding ourselves exactly where we had left. A clatter greeted us a moment later, and I looked about me suspiciously, but could not find anything which might have caused it except a cat which had lain atop a nearby garbage pile.

We entered the public house once more, gratified to see Bell there and looking somewhat recovered. The investigation into his claims of murder, it seemed, could finally begin.


	20. Temperance, Part 3

As we entered the public house, we saw that it had become well and truly empty. Only Bell remained, the people around him already cleaning the room in preparation for opening again the next morning.

Bell, still sat at his table, seemed to have moved very little in the time we had been away. He did, however, look better: some color had returned to his face, his expression had grown less and less troubled. Most importantly, I thought, he greeted us as we approached his table, finally recognizing us.

"Really, Mr. Holmes, I couldn't be more ashamed of my conduct earlier," he said. The alcohol had clearly had some effect on him still, but he was sociable now - a great improvement, I must say.

We settled Bell's tab together, made some minor talk until Bell had sufficiently gathered himself, and then listened to Bell finally explaining the reason for his depression and his attempt to drown himself in alcohol - the death of his good friend and club-mate, Felix Day, by his own metaphysical hand.

"You see, gentlemen, I'm a bit of a country boy. When I arrived in London to seek work as a clerk, I found myself not fitting the climate of the local clubs. Nonetheless, it's proper for any gentlemen to be a part of clubs nowadays, so even though my manners were perhaps not as proper and my education lacking on several matters I sought to join a good club nonetheless. Yet there was none that would have me. I was very nearly at my wits' end when I applied to a club I'd not heard of before.

It was called," said he, "the Hellfire Club."

From me this roused some shock, though Holmes of course had no real reaction to this name.

"It's somewhat macabre of a name, isn't it?" I said, interrupting the narrative. "Quite different from my own Kandahar Club, or the Diogenes, or several others I could name."

"Yes, quite," said Bell. "I thought so too, at first. It's apparently a historical reference, I've been told. But you must understand, the men there were generally of a genial sort, amiable even to me and my habits, and so I applied to join.

It was nothing arduous, really. I merely had to wear a robe and swear a nonsensical oath in - I think it was Ancient Greek? I'm not entirely sure. I asked for the translation as a matter of curiosity and it was just the standard stuff you'd expect, professing belief in the club's principles and whatnot."

"Indeed, that corresponds with my own experience," I said.

"If only I'd known then what I was about to step into," said Bell, sorrow once more clouding his face. "But I'm getting ahead of myself.  
You see, after that, I became an official member. I was entitled to use the club's rooms whenever I pleased, was expected to make a small contribution every now and then, and there was of course the occasional ceremony I had to participate in."

"A ceremony, meaning what exactly?" Holmes asked.

"Er, mostly pretending to be priests and such, doing silly stuff priests usually wouldn't be allowed to do," said Bell, blushing. "Drinking heavily for the most part, really, and eating very good food on occasion. Nothing too objectionable."

"I see," said Holmes, smiling. "Nothing wrong with that, of course. Please continue, Mr. Bell."

"Yes, well. I met several good friends in the Hellfire Club, including Mr. Felix Day. We became such good friends that I occasionally visited him at home, in fact. He took the ceremonies much more seriously than I did. He was an art collector by day, you see, and every now and then he would splurge on buying some fanciful object that was said to have occult uses. He had a small alchemical lab, I recall, even though no one believes in that stuff anymore."

"And Mr. Day," said Holmes gently, "was the victim?"

"Yes," said Bell, swallowing. "In fact, I met him the day before this all happened. You see, Day had found a new object and was raving about it to me at the Club, so I went for a visit.

His newest obsession, Mr. Holmes, was a beautiful black cat statue. I cannot quite recall where he said he got it, though knowing him it could have come from blackest Africa or one of the Oriental countries; he always loved that sort of thing. In any case, the statue was made of some lustrous black material, but its eyes were made of what looked like shining rubies. Fake ones, of course.

I got into a monstrous row with Day later, however. As I recall I said that it was beautiful indeed, but I thought he'd be better investing his money elsewhere, and he said I had no appreciation for the arts or the occult, and, well..."

"You had an argument, plainly put," said Holmes.

"Indeed, Mr. Holmes. I stormed out, and after I'd arrived home I got to thinking that it would be marvelous if I could give him some of his medicine. So I took one of the scrolls he had given me," and saying this, his voice broke. 

It took some time before he had collected himself sufficiently to continue. "On that scroll was written an ancient curse from the Egyptians or the like. I read it out loud, substituting his name as required." He sounded truly anguished as he told us this; tears once more threatened to fall.

"And then I went to bed. But I couldn't sleep, mister Holmes. I felt as though I had done something I shouldn't - and I had! Some part of me must have known what I had wrought in my ignorance, what terrible thing I had unleashed!

"But I made up my mind the next morning to go for a visit to his home, to apologize, so tortured was I by this ill-defined bad feeling. Hopefully I could sweep the matter under the rug, as it were, and we'd be great friends once more. Instead, I found him dead, struck dead by that very curse I had unleashed that night!"

At this, his lip quivered. He truly believed that he had killed his fellow man, without intending to - moreover, that he had somehow done so via dark magic. 

Holmes and I exchanged a glance; his was wholly skeptical, mine less so. After all, there had been the entire matter of the Loci recently - who could say that curses were too far-fetched, considering that?

"Calm down, Mr. Bell," said Holmes. "I very much doubt that you have cast some horrible deadly curse on your friend."

"You haven't seen what I've seen," Bell responded hollowly. "I was the one who discovered his body, and my whole life I'll never forget it."

He shuddered and gripped the table.

"The state of the body," said he, "was horrible. He laid there on the floor, a shattered lantern near his feet. His arm was still clutching at his chest, and on his face was such an expression of horror that I could not help but believe that it was the curse I had unchained which struck him down with horrible agony."

"I see," said Holmes. "It does indeed sound like quite the horrible scene."

Holmes sat back. "Certainly this case presents some difficulties, Mr. Bell. Do you mind terribly if I ask you some questions?"

"Not at all, Mr. Holmes," said he, clearly eager for any resolution. "What would you like to know?"

"About this black cat statue," Holmes inquired. "Where exactly was it placed?"

"Er, I think he had set it upon a desk in his living room," Bell, however startled he may be at this line of inquiry, responded immediately.

"I see," said Holmes, thoughts brewing in his head of which I had no idea.

"Would you be so kind as to guide us to Mr. Day's home tomorrow?"

"It would be no problem," said Bell. "I took several days off after I discovered Felix's body."

"Thank you, Mr. Bell," said Holmes. "That will be all, in fact."

"You, er, have no questions about the curse?" asked Bell.

"Not at all, Mr. Bell," said Holmes. "I am no great believer in the occult, you see. Certainly there have been a great many cases which might, at one time, seemed to have stemmed from witchcraft - to put it plainly - but in the end a rational explanation can be found that explains what truly happened.

"You see," Holmes continued. "You have nothing to fear from curses and the like, Mr. Bell. I have set my eyes on a particular theory which looks to be promising indeed, and tomorrow we three will confirm it once and for all. In the meantime, you can sleep assured - no devil will haunt you and drag your soul to hell, except those you have mistakenly imagined yourself out of misplaced guilt."

"Misplaced!" said Bell, clutching onto this word above the rest that Holmes had spoken.

"Yes, indeed, misplaced," said Holmes. "We will confirm that tomorrow, Mr. Bell. See you then, and good night."

But as we stood to leave the public house to return home, we were approached by that very same barmaid we had rescued from Bell.

"Er, sir, if you don't mind me asking," said she, "I, er, saw you come back into the pub earlier."

"And?" Holmes asked, though he must have known the question was about to ask. I tensed, though Holmes seemed entirely calm.

"Might I ask how you did that? It's like you faded in from nowhere. One moment you weren't there, and the other moment you were," she said, breathlessly.

Holmes grabbed his hat from the stand, put it on with an elegant flick of his wrist like a stage magician might, and smiled widely.

"Why," he said, "I'm Sherlock Holmes, of course."

And with that, he left to arrange a late cab, leaving both me and the barmaid in his wake, equally bemused.

The next morning found us three standing in front of Day's house - that is, Holmes and I, accompanied by Bell, for Lestrade was busy at the time with organizing one of his other cases.

It was, all told, an elegant building with a surprisingly large front yard. It looked, in a word, expensive and closed-off, as the fence surrounding the whole property was tipped with iron barbs and hedges had been erected around it to better guarantee its owner privacy.

"Ah, Mr. Day lived alone, did he?" said Holmes, with some satisfaction.

Bell started. "How on earth - "

"It is simple enough," Holmes chuckled. "The hedges are left far more untrimmed than those of the neighbours, for instance. What woman with pride left in her would allow this state of affairs? A house-keeper is unlikely too, as there are no shoe-marks on the path to the front door which might fit a woman's foot."

"Yes, you're right," Bell confirmed. "He lived entirely alone, together with his sculptures and his art collection. I think that perhaps that is a part of why he gravitated towards the Hellfire Club."

He pulled a key from his pocket. "Shall we go in, mister Holmes?"

"Lead the way," said Holmes, and together we entered the mansion. With only minor hesitation, Bell led us to the place where he had found Day's body.

The police had clearly been for a visit, and even I could see it: a chalk outline had been sketched on the floor, atop a rug. Glass shards had been left scattered at the figure's feet. I could, however, not see any blood, which was puzzling.

As Bell had mentioned, there was another element in the room that I found remarkable: that statue of the black cat, which was indeed a fine work of art. Its eyes were made of finely cut rubies - or, I think, more likely colored glass. The effect they presented, however, with their sinister crimson shine, was off-putting, and I could see why Day thought it to have occultic powers.

"I see," said Holmes, satisfied when he had observed the corpse and the statue. "I have almost everything I need, except one crucial thing. Will you accompany me to the kitchen, gentlemen?"

"What does the kitchen have to do with anything, Mr. Holmes?" said Bell.

"All in due time," was Holmes' answer.

When Bell had shown us the small kitchen - encountering several odd sculptures along the way, none of which I found particularly beautiful - Holmes began pulling open cupboards and drawers, one after another. What he was looking for, I did not know.

"Aha," he cried, finally, having located something I could not see.

"You see, Watson?" Holmes said, pulling whatever clue he had discovered out of the cupboard.

"Medicine?" I asked. "Medicine for a weak heart, at that."

"Indeed," said Holmes, almost purring with satisfaction. "Does that not offer the final proof that you are entirely innocent, Mr. Bell?"

But Bell and I merely stared. What the devil he was hinting at, neither of us had any idea.

"Come now, gentlemen," he chuckled. "Is it not obvious?"

"You'll have to explain it to me, sir," said Bell, clearly puzzled.

"Very well. Firstly, there is the medicine we just unearthed," he said, flourishing it. "This medicine is, as you are perhaps aware, Mr. Bell, a medicinal compound taken for those with weak hearts and other sorts of heart-related maladies."

"It is indeed," I confirmed. "I've given it to several of my patients, in fact. You are saying that Day had a weak heart?"

"Exactly, Watson, exactly. Day had a heart problem, though which malady he suffered from precisely is difficult to say at the moment - and, furthermore, more your expertise than mine, Watson. But which it was does not overly matter, to be truthful."

"How did you know to look for it here?" I asked. "It could've been anywhere."

"Ah, but it wasn't," said Holmes. "You see, most medication is taken at meals - the regularity makes it easier to remember, is the reason most often cited. Taking into account that most people usually wish to be efficient with their time, those who take medicines will often store them in the kitchen so as to keep them close at hand during a meal."

"That makes sense," I said. "But how did you know Day would take medicine at all?"

"There we come to the main thrust of the case, Watson," said he. "You see, I discarded right away the possibility of the case being truly occult in nature. If Mr. Bell truly had any occultic powers, however, then I would have had to eat crow, as it were. Luckily, he mentioned in his account the shards of glass scattered around Day's feet, and it was there that I began to have an inkling what must have truly happened. Everything else we have learned so far has only confirmed my suspicions.

You see, the curse is much less important than the argument," Holmes said. "Perhaps the only thing the curse could be said to have done is make you lay the blame on yourself, Mr. Bell, for what is nothing more than a tragic accident."

"An accident?" Bell cried. "I don't believe it!"

"But believe it you will, Mr. Bell. Allow me to show you," said Holmes, and he took us around the house, closing the curtains around the windows as he did so. Finally he stopped when the whole house was dark, so much so that he took a lantern with him as he walked to not bump into anything.

We returned to the stairs, where Holmes put on quite a show. He thumped down the stairs in an exaggerated fashion, looking about himself glumly, carrying the lantern with him.

He proceeded to enter the living room, us in tow, and there the object of this charade was to be found.

As he entered, the light from his lantern shined upon that black cat, and from its eyes emitted such a sinister glow that I very nearly called for Llud, thinking myself in the Locus.

Bell swore. "My god!" he cried. "It truly is a cursed thing."

"In some sense, yes," said Holmes, grinning. "You are looking, gentlemen, at Day's true killer."

"The statue?" Bell said, completely befuddled.

"Exactly," Holmes responded. "You see, when he came down here at night - on some errand, perhaps to get some water - he took a lantern with him. His blood pressure already elevated from the earlier argument, his light shined on the cat's eyes, and the result scared him so much he was, very literally, frightened to death. The lantern shattered at his feet," and here he gestured at his feet, which true to what he was saying were located exactly on top of the chalk outline's, "and that was that for Mr. Day."

"Ah!" I cried. "That truly does explain everything! Indeed, with a weak heart he would indeed be susceptible to shocks."

"But the look of horror on his face," Bell protested.

"Easily explained by the shock of the event, the pain of his heart failing, and then rigor mortis setting in," Holmes explained.

"But- but-" Bell said, falling over his words.

"Really, Mr. Bell," said Holmes. "I think this is fairly conclusive, and we need only wait for the death certificate to prove it."

Holmes clapped him on the back, but seeing that we could not truly convince Bell of his own innocence until the certificate was in, we left him to go send a telegram to Lestrade to request it.

It took some more days, but eventually we received it, and it confirmed Holmes' theory to the letter: a heightened blood pressure and a weak heart had done Felix Day in, not a nebulous ancient curse.

There was some irony, perhaps, in that the misguided application of the occult got Bell into this mess in the first place, and our justified application of it got him out of it. 

In any sense, we filled Lestrade in on the details later, but it was two whole months before there was another case that has not been described elsewhere and did involve the use of the Loci, and there I shall pick up the story once more.


End file.
